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batbirdies · 5 years

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NaNoWriMo 2019 Batfam fic Part 5

Part 5 of my Jason Todd Batfam fic where Jason eventually agrees to dog sit Titus, there are some deep seated issues, unintended animal therapy, snarky text messages between robins and eventually some reconciliation between father and son. Takes place in a murky in between time sometime after Damian was resurrected.

Hopefully I get the links right in this one unlike my last post, as someone kindly pointed out, because I tried to edit the link and just holy cow. The website won’t save it, and if I try to edit posts on the app? It just deletes all the content completely. Very nice Tumblr....

Same warning as all other installments: this is a very rough draft that is being copied and pasted from my working google doc. Expect mistakes. These are also snippets, and there is skipped content in between.

Part 1,

Part 2,

Part 3,

Part 4

Some days were better than others but the flash of the fighting pits that morning put him enough on edge that in the end, he’d sided with staying in. Even if skipping out so much left him with a lingering sense of guilt, it was better than shooting someone because the pit told him to.

And hey, Bruce was right after all, he’d always wanted a dog so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

So he makes himself dinner, something good, from scratch that he can keep on hand for after patrol snacks on other days. He digs through his kitchen and settles on fajitas, easy but delicious and good leftovers. He takes Titus on a third walk that evening just before he eats and then he feeds him just before dishing himself up dinner.

He watches Titus fling one of his toys around a little while he eats and thinks maybe he’ll take him to a dog park the next day instead of just walking around the block. The whole point was that he needed the exercise wasn’t it? He was friendly and it was something for Jason to do in the middle of the day when he’d normally be knee deep in research for a case. So he reads up on local ones and finds one not too far away that’s an off leash park where he can throw the ball for Titus and get him some decent exercise. The demon will probably even be happy about it.

When it’s nearing the time he’d normally be leaving for patrol he peruses his bookshelves, picks out an old favorite, makes himself a mug of tea and lays out on the couch with the new blanket draped over his lower half and reads. Tries not to think about the people on the streets that might need him, that he could be leaving without protection while he’s lounging somewhere comfortable and warm.

It feels lazy, after everything he’s done and been through.

But he’s not Batman. He knows his limits, he knows when he should back off and take a break and so that’s that. He doesn’t think about it.

He tries to absorb himself in the story, and manages a little, until about ten minutes later when there’s a heavy shift in weight on the couch and Jason looks up from his book to find Titus carefully picking his feet around his legs.

“What do you think you’re— Oof-“ His breath wheezed out of him in a rush as Titus’ full weight came down on his gut, all balanced on one small foot. “You’re crushing me, what are you doing?” Another two steps and the dog was suddenly settling down, shoving his hands and book out of the way, Titus whole body resting on top of Jason’s. Nose reaching all the way up to his collar bone, front paws tucked in next to his head, the rest of him a solid, heavy weight down his front with lower legs resting between Jason’s. He gasps out a laugh and wishes his phone was within reach, he’d get another picture to send to Damian.

Titus huffs out a very soft growl and Jason settles a hand on his head, scratching at his itchy ears while he turns his head from side to side and whaps his tail against the soft leather of the couch.

“You do this to the kid too? You’re bigger than he is, you’d break his ribs.” Titus only lets out a pleased little grumble at the ear scratches before Jason finishes with a pat to the side of his neck and attempts to find a comfortable place to settle his book and read with the dog on top of him. It’s an oddly comfortable weight, even if his bony little elbows are jutting into his rib cage and his lungs feel mildly compressed. The little warm puffs of air on the backs of his hands when he finally sets the book in front of Titus’ nose, uncomfortably close to his face, are kind of...nice too.

Jason hadn’t gone to sleep before 2am in he could even remember how long, but it was just nearing midnight when he’s starting to nod off. Titus weight and body heat making him weirdly drowsy. The words on the page blur in front of him multiple times before he finally slips a bookmark in the page he could last actually remember and set it on the coffee table next to him. Then he rested his hands on either side of Titus head and closed his eyes, letting himself just fall asleep. He’d regret it later when he woke up in the middle of the night with his neck killing him or Titus crushing his sternum while getting down off the couch, but for the time being, he felt oddly relaxed.

He was drifting off before he knew it.

The dream that night is not a new one. Not that they ever are, but it does start more abruptly than he’s used to.

He opens his eyes in the dark and he’s blinking and blinking and the air around him is hot and stale and Jason has no idea where he is or how he got there, but it’s cramped and he can’t move his arms above his head and his heart is pounding so loud it’s all he can hear. There’s not enough air, his elbows keep slamming into the sides of the box he’s in and he’s crying, panicking, in seconds. Clawing at the barrier above him until his nails are torn and bleeding. His only rational thought comes when he manages to slip his belt off, when he starts tearing at the exposed wood of the coffin with the buckle, mindless, angry, terrified, it’s all he can do to keep moving so he doesn’t just lay down and die again.

Splintered chips of wood cut up his hands but the sting is nothing compared to the frantic adrenaline pumping through him. All at once the weakened wood gives way and then Jason is sputtering and coughing up soil that’s collapsing in -

Something cold and wet touches his cheek and he’s blinking his eyes open to a dimly lit apartment and Titus’ big head right in his face. He noses at his chin and whines and Jason groans, shoving away Titus’ face and feeling his skin crawl, he tries to push the dog off and Titus goes without complaint, jumping to the floor with only one well placed kick to Jason’s bladder.

He lays there, staring at the ceiling and counting his breaths. Titus licks his hand and Jason jerks upright, startled, and swallows. The dog sits down on the floor but presses himself to the side of the couch, shoves his head in Jason’s lap and he focuses on that, on the soft, velvet like fur under his fingers when he rubs them across the bony head.

“I’m fine.” He whispers to the dog, like Titus is worried about him or something. “Thanks for waking me up.” He can just see the whites of the dog’s eyes flash when he glances up at him, like he’s really listening. “The rest of that dream is….not good.” He draws in a deep breath, feels like his lungs are still compressed and counts himself an idiot for not realizing sleeping with a weight on his chest would drag up those particular memories.

“My fault.” He feels boneless. “Sorry I scared you.” Titus lifts his head and gets a solid lick to Jason’s face before he manages to jerk back, gets a face full of dog breath that has him suppressing a gag. “Christ.” He shoves his snout the other direction, feeling a slightly hysterical laugh bubble up in his chest. “You are really something, you know that?”

Jason sits there for a little while longer, letting his breathing even out and scratching at Titus’ ears and down his neck. His bladder is dying for a relief and he finally levers himself up off the couch and shuffles to the bathroom, listens to Titus’ claws clicking across the linoleum of the kitchen floor when he goes for a drink.

Exhaustion pulls at him, even after the dream, now that his heart rate is back down to normal and instead of pulling out a book or the headphones or watching stupid aimless YouTube video’s on his phone like he might normally, he crawls into his bed and lays on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow. He can feel himself drifting back off and has a minor twinge of fear that the dream will just start back up again - but then he feels the weight on the mattress shift and Titus pads up next to him, settling himself on the lower half of the bad, half curled up, and sets his chin on the back of Jason’s leg. He feels the weird sensation of the dog swallowing and he’s out before he has another moment to worry.

#Jason Todd #Fanfiction #NaNoWriMo #Batfam #I promise this is more than just Jason having repeated PTSD nightmares #trigger warning PTSD #for that matter #nightmares #someday ill post one of these NOT in the middle of the night #it’s currently 1am where i am

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lazyevaluationranch · 4 years

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I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.

Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.

It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas.

It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.

This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.

The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.

Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago.

The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.

Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too.

I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more:

My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister.

That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out.

The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.

The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks. A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.

Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell.

In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota. Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys.

From Sheepish:

We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle.

And:

Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.

The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:

My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.

The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.

Well. No wonder.

Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other.

The book says: We made it. You will too.

#the-revolution-will-be-feminized

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pheita · 3 years

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Get to Know me April Part 1

[Picture ID: A banner with a blue night sky and visible stars on the upper half and violet dust on the lower half. In the middle is a golden decoration that looks like flowers with a small golden rectangle between it saying: Get to Know me End ID] Hi and welcome to my first “Get to know me” Post. Throughout April 2021 I have nothing better to do than give you some insight about me, my WIPs and all that jazz. So let’s start. I am 37 years old, which means I am sort of a “grandma” on Tumblr given the fact how many young folks and teenagers are around here. I live with my mother because we are both chronically ill and well, together we somehow manage to keep the household running. The list of illnesses is long, and I spare you to read it all, but I can say so far it is a “lovely” mix of mental and physical stuff with chronic pain being the main culprit. Identifying as bisexual and demisexual for over a decade I start to question a lot about myself couple of months ago because of some discussions I had with friends. Since childhood, I always counted as a tomboy because I have zero interest in lots of typical girl things. I once got a Barbie for my sixth birthday and killed it within an afternoon. I think that says a lot. Plus I was always more the jean, shirt, and sneaker person and only wear dresses when they are these super comfortable t-shirt/sweatshirt dresses I still can wear with pants. Listing all the shows and stuff I like would take a lot of time, so I spare us all this long list. I am always in for fantasy, sci-fi, supernatural or thriller shows/movies and books. I grew up on shows like Star Trek and Star Wars (yeah, I love both), Xena, Hercules, Buffy, Charmed, X-Files, Looney Toons and various Marvel and DC cartoon shows (again, yeah I love both). When I am not writing I either create jewelry with epoxy resin or wire, go swimming, draw when I can, like to play videogames and discovered book binding for myself thanks to the rehab center I go to which has these close to real work environment approach. I am notorious for starting new WIPs or switching through the started WIPs since I only can write them when I feel them in some way. It is less a interest/motivation thing for me. But I am also notorious for making at least one playlist for each WIP. You don’t want to see my Spotify, you will just shake your hand and ask how someone can have so many playlists. The secret is: Character list, story lists that work as outline, lists for certain scenes, and so on.

Since I am a spoonie and must decide where to put my energy every day. Most of the time I am only able to do some minor stuff in regards or reading/reblogging/tag games and I only can keep track of a small amount if mutual WIPs. So, when an answer or such takes longer, you know why. I started writing when I was 12 with fanfics before I even knew there was a term for it. I started with terrible self-insert Star Trek Voyager fics and yeah, I still love Star Trek, along other shows of all genres. I was around 16 when I tried my first original fiction which mostly got lost during the last move. I have only one of the three I had and while I liked the basic idea the way I wrote it was not good. So much youthful ignorance. I summed up the basic idea somewhere and threw it away because I would need to redo it completely someday. I

I took a break from writing between age 19 and 23 because of school and having a bad time with migraines all the time. I picked it up again during college after I started reading fanfics and the first fanfic, I ever posted was for NCIS. Yeah, a wild jump here, that is sort of typical for me. For the next 8 years I would write fanfics for NCIS, Criminal Minds, Stargate Atlantis, and White Collar. Sometimes I threw in some other shows for crossover reasons. I still have this weird Criminal Minds /Buffy -The Vampire Slayer crossover fic half-finished somewhere, I think. At around 25/26 I started writing original stories again. The first one was a supernatural lesbian vampire story I seriously need to rework because my style changed so much. There is also the dystopian harem story where I realized just a year ago, I started at the wrong point. And then there was the AU fanfic that would become the base for “Mystical World”, my WIP with which I started on Tumblr in August 2016. Well, technically, I didn’t join writblr before December that year, but yeah, I am heading towards year five on this site. Over the course of this time I expanded from writing solely fantasy to other genres as well. That’s it for today. More in 2 days. See you there. Tag list @gwens-fiction @danaspriddy @starlitesymphony @thatfizzyyyy @chris-the-dragonslayer @ayzrules @kiaradimari

#writblr #writing #get to know me april #1 #pheita talks

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kentonwrites · 3 years

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“Anamnesis” - Project Update

Look, I know I only have 40 followers and like 38 of them are bots, but writing these updates is my only source of joy. If someone happens upon this, please enjoy.

My projects/writing life since 2017 have been utter chaos. I’ve started and abandoned probably over a dozen projects, had nightmarish problems in my personal life, and pretty much put writing as my last priority. For some odd reason though, returning to it now has given me a better perspective on the craft. I feel like taking a couple of years to simply live and observe and consume other media and suffer has actually strengthened my writing.

A summary of my current projects:

1. Mispacha (Untitled): I used the placeholder title Mispacha because it’s the Hebrew term for “family,” which is what this novel revolves around. It’s about a dysfunctional family in the early 2010′s who simply live in constant disorder and end up degrading themselves. I love the characters and the plot points I have planned, but I’m only 16k words in and am not happy with what I’ve written. The dialogue feels awkward, the writing extremely sparse, etc. I want to see it through, but it’s hard to persist at it when 16k words worth of dead weight is just...hovering there on the page.

2. Blight 117 (formerly titled Potent). This was my last start-to-finish project, and the piece that I first introduced to @breefrankelwriting when we were CPs like 4 years ago. I recently reopened that document and read through a few scenes and was absolutely APPALLED at how atrocious it was (Bree I’m so sorry please forgive me), but I also feel like I’m somehow meant to tell this story and I eventually, someday, want to make it work. It was my first ever idea for a “real” novel--I’ve had the idea and characters with me since 7th grade. I feel like it’s supposed to be my magnum opus, but if I ever go back and re-attempt it, it’ll need an overhaul the likes of which have never been seen since the dawn of time.

3. Short Story Collection: Literally last night I was just standing around and then suddenly got the inspiration to start writing short stories. I know, it’s literally so spontaneous and quirky of me. I’d attempted a few during the absolute deadzone of 2018-2020, but none of them truly worked out. Since I evidently suck at writing longer pieces (see Mispacha) I figured, maybe my strengths could be suited to a shorter medium.

So I decided to randomly draft a short story last night that played directly to my weaknesses!!!

This story is what the bulk of this update is about.

It’s called “Anamnesis” and I literally came up with the idea, wrote the first draft, and made revision notes all in a span of 5 hours last night, from 9 PM - 2 AM. It was exhilarating honestly--I hadn’t written like that in years. The first draft ended up being 5200 words (!!!) but I want to eventually buff it to around 6k since I think I majorly underwrote the final scene due to fatigue.

“Anamnesis”

TITLE: The title, “Anamnesis,” literally fits the story in so many ways I could cry. It operates on every level. All I can do is bow down to the person who created this word and thank them for its relevance to my story.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Sexual abuse, violence toward elderly

SYNOPSIS: A home health worker is assigned to an elderly woman whose memory resets each morning. He begins to take advantage of her illness, using her inability to remember the previous day in order to mistreat and abuse her. But when she is prescribed a new, promising treatment, she begins to remember more than just the abuse.

AESTHETIC: This story has the most unpleasant aesthetic known to man. I’m talking old people, pills, mold, dust, stray cats, oatmeal, etc. I’ve been in a few hospice patient homes before and I wanted to capture just how uncomfortable and depressing it can be.

CHARACTERS:

Luna Lemin - the protagonist, an elderly woman with dementia whose memory resets every morning. Always confused. Pitiful. Sad. Dark secrets in her past???

Alex - the patient care technician assigned to look after Luna. An absolute piece of trash. A spectacular liar. Malicious yet curious.

PROCESS: Like I said, this story played directly to my weaknesses. How? Because I simply cannot create compelling characters or pace a story to save my LIFE, and this story DEPENDS on the characters and the pace at which their relationship progresses. Furthermore, the setting in this is somewhat bland (literally just an old woman’s middle/lower-class house) which is a sin in terms of my writing. I thrive off of having a strong sense of setting and being able to describe specific, interesting details of that setting. In this piece I largely deprived myself of that. But it also helped me balance my flowery, poetic, overly-quirky writing style with a cohesive story and effective characters. Lately I had been putting my work on the crutch of having good writing, but it didn’t work because 1) my writing is not at a good enough level for that, and 2) sacrificing effectiveness is never a good idea. Sometimes it’s better to choose the clear, effective verb over the never-before-seen exotic one found in the depths of the Thesaurus under “archaic.”

I’m going to begin editing the story and might soon post excerpts/more updates! Though I literally wrote it in one long sprint and haven’t looked back at it since so I am PRAYING it’s not garbage. Thanks for reading!

#writing #writers on tumblr #writing update #short story #anamnesis

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dustedmagazine · 4 years

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Dust Volume 7, Number 3

Black Country, New Road

One of the funniest parts of Martin Amis’ Inside Story concerns an up-and-coming novelist, constantly asked at literary festivals to differentiate between his short stories and novels and just as consistently coming up with new ways to say that the short stories are, well, shorter. Same deal with Dust. These abbreviated reviews are, indeed, shorter than the full-lengths, but otherwise well worth reading. And, hoo boy, are there a lot of them this time. Contributors include Ian Mathers, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Patrick Masterson, Arthur Krumins, Eric McDowell, Justin Cober-Lake, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Jonathan Shaw and Bryon Hayes.

Aarktica and Black Tape for a Blue Girl — Eating Rose Petals (Projekt: Archive)

Eating Rose Petals by Aarktica and Black Tape for a Blue Girl

Aarktica’s Jon DeRosa and Black Tape for a Blue Girl’s Sam Rosenthal have known each other for a long time, but this release is the first time they’ve actually worked together. Rosenthal was so struck by the title song, one of the few from Aarktica’s 2019 release Mareación to feature DeRosa’s vocals, that with the latter’s permission and participation he created the almost 19-minute “Fleeting Rose Petals”, which features the original track backwards with wordless additional vocals from DeRosa, plus additional material by Rosenthal before and after it. The original (also included here, along with the closing “Valley of the Roses” which features Rosenthal further reworking the additional material from “Fleeting Rose Petals”) already felt like a single lambent moment in time suspended and held, and by reworking and reconfiguring that material over a full 37-minute span that effect is only intensified.

Ian Mathers

Altaat & Euter — Split (Ikuisuus)

split by Altaat / Euter

Two experimental drone outfits from Finland play extended abstract compositions on this split LP. Altaat’s sidelong “Palava Palaava” sounds like an orchestra tuning up in a wind tunnel as it splices long bowed tones with the rush and whir of large machinery. But however, chaotic that may sound, the actual effect is quite serene, the om of dissonant overtones melting into a white noise background of rattling, humming, whooshing mechanical sounds. Altaat’s Niko Karlsson and Miki Brunou, along with Jari Koho, subsume the noisy clatter of the post-industrial era into a dream-like, beckoning hiss. Euter, also a duo but not willing to give up personal names, works a less organically grounded sound, filling an expansive, echoey space with chortling, wobbling synth cadences, metallic clangs and staticky, between-stations blare. The long “Slowly Underwater,” unfolds in chilly surreality. You get the sense of vast metal furnaces blowing out corrosive chemical clouds, of mechanical sensors picking up and sending signals and of chittering, hurrying life amid ruins. (No, I’m not hearing anything especially watery.) “Magnetic Mammals,” which follows, is similarly machine-like and ominous, picking up vast, sirening sounds as if from a distance with bubbling bursts of radio interference in the foreground. Altaat’s side is certainly closer to conventional Western classical music, but Euter finds some intriguing, disquieting spaces. Makes you wonder what they’re putting in the water up there in reindeer land.

Jennifer Kelly

Rrill Bell — Ballad of the External Life (Elevator Bath)

ballad of the external life by Rrill Bell ////// aka The Preterite

One of the challenges of early electronic music was its labor intensity; it could take months of recording, processing, card-punching and pondering to come up with a few minutes of music. But tools change, and with them, opportunities for access open up. The music of Rrill Bell, a German-based American musician, makes that lengthy process shake hands with instant performance. Originally trained as a percussionist, he works mainly with tapes, which he records, uses in performance, and in the course of performance, records over and re-uses again. But in concert, he tends to improvise with these materials, making split-second decisions that occasionally get preserved for potential re-visiting.

If that sounds like a recipe for frenetic sonic action, it’s not. Mr. Bell’s tastes in original sounds tend towards bells and environmental captures, and he rarely crowds the mix. Tones squiggle and unspool, unidentifiable bumps appear and disappear, and birds chirp at the periphery. It’s easy to characterize this as ambient music, since a low-volume listen is pleasant but undemanding. But keep in mind that successful ambient music must be interesting as well as ignorable, and the dream-like sound walk of Ballad of the External Life still delivers.

Bill Meyer

Black Country, New Road — For the First Time (Ninja Tune)

For the first time by Black Country, New Road

“Sunglasses” erupts out of a blare of feedback, a roar of guitar noise that splinters and disintegrates as you trace its melody. Synths sound like police sirens. It’s all very slow and ominous, and for a minute, all those Slint comparisons make sense. And then it resolves into something like an indie rock song, spoke-sung over thunderous drums by one Isaac Wood, he of the tremulous voice and the unreliable narrative, whose art song proclivities may bring bands like Wild Beasts to mind, though without the fey falsetto. The song is a marvel of bravado and doubt, working the soft seam between ordinary male adolescence and mental illness, and the sunglasses play a key part. Says Wood, “I am looking at you with my best eyes and I wish you could tell/I wish all my kids would stop dressing up like Richard Hell/I am locked away in a high-tech/Wraparound, translucent, blue-tinted fortress/And you cannot touch me.” (Also, later, “I am more than adequate/Leave Kanye out of it,” which strikes me as brilliant for reasons I can’t fathom.) The point is that there are startling, riveting lyrics here, of the sort that you could make a case for leaving it unadorned, but Black Country, New Road is not interested in simplicity. The rather large ensemble includes not just the regular rock instruments but saxophone, violin and synths, all knotted up in proggy complexities and paced by a drummer (Charlie Wayne) good enough to give Black Midi’s Morgan Simpson a run for his money (the two bands are aligned and friends and Black Midi gets a name check in one of the songs). Indeed, the opening track of this six-cut collection is aptly titled “Instrumental,” a whirling gypsy klezmer cubist fantasy that is, if anything, nervier and more complicated than the vocal tracks. This is exciting, volatile stuff that could go anywhere from here.

Jennifer Kelly

Deniz Cuylan — No Such Thing As Free Will (Hush Hush)

No Such Thing As Free Will by Deniz Cuylan

Everything about Deniz Cuylan’s solo debut is understated. Six instrumental tracks running to just 27 minutes, released on the fittingly named Hush Hush Records, No Such Thing As Free Will seeks to evoke something subtle and universal out of minimal ingredients. There’s a robust architecture to this music, generating a sober, contemplative mood. Arpeggios on nylon-string classical guitar cycle around in precise arcs, gently bolstered by piano, clarinet and cello. The space in opener “Clearing” shyly invites the listener in; the record reaches a modest peak in the bright harmonics of “She Was Always Here” and the almost joyful elegance of “Flaneurs in Hakone”; then the music recedes into a melancholic fog on the closing title track. It’s telling, therefore, that Cuylan has worked as a soundtrack composer — his music feels complementary, receding modestly into life’s scenery rather than commanding the spotlight.

Tim Clarke

Arnold de Boer — Minimal Guitar (Makkum)

MINIMAL GUITAR by arnolddeboer

Somedays you just don’t do what you’re supposed to do. At the end of the last summer, Arnold de Boer decided to extend his holiday by a day and take a walk around town. When he got back home, he sat down, picked up an instrument and listened to the music that came out of his fingers. The music was no more expected than the activity that preceded it. Instead of the rough, voltage-enhanced intricacy of the music he plays with The Ex or his one-man band, Zea, de Boer played a set of acoustic guitar solos. Neither ostentatious nor self-consciously rustic, de Boer’s playing tends to zero in on an idea and see where it wants to go. Each rhythmic pattern, decaying harmonic, or rap on the body proposes an idea, which de Boer either explores or restates with minimal variation. Ah, there’s that word. This isn’t a study in minimalism, but an appreciation of how little you need to do if the original idea is sound.

Bill Meyer

Dusk + Blackdown — Rinse FM Mix January 28, 2021 (Rinse FM)

Rinse FM · Keysound (100% Keysound Production Mix) - 28 January 2021

I’m not sure there’s a place left on the internet better suited to explaining the rise of grime, dubstep and its attendant mutations than Martin Clark’s aging Blogspot under his Blackdown alias. From ground zero in London, Clark has been documenter, eyewitness and participant alike, a true lifer fully evidenced by his longtime partnership with Dan Frampton, aka Dusk, showcasing new music on their monthly Rinse radio show and Keysound Recordings record label. They’re an essential part of the culture, so it’s especially pleasant when they serve up some of their own riches. After the traditional December year-end roundup show, Dusk and Blackdown came roaring out of the gates in January with an all-Keysound broadcast in the middle of the night that features gobs of unreleased rollage over its two hours. It’s a nice reminder that though time may pass, URLs may cut out and memories may dim, some are still putting in the work one release, one radio show, one listen at a time. The sound is the key is right.

Patrick Masterson

EKG — 200 Years Of Electricals (Bandcamp)

200 Years of Electricals by EKG (Ernst Karel & Kyle Bruckmann)

Most things don’t hold their value. Why should time be any different? So, if Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote 100 Years of Solitude in the 1960s, EKG might as well proclaim 200 Years Of Electricals in 2021. EKG is Kyle Bruckmann (double reeds, analog electronics, organ) and Ernst Karel (analog electronics, microphones). The duo first convened in the mid-1990s, when both men lived in Chicago, and Karel was mainly known as a trumpeter. They’ve carried on in sporadic fashion ever since, playing increasingly rare concerts as each man moved away from his original home base. They’ve turned snippets from these shows into subdued musical constructions, which they’ve issued on a number of compact discs over the years. For their first release in over a decade, the duo, who currently both live in the Bay area, have ditched the trumpet and the physical album format, and incorporated some of the field recordings that have become Karel’s main sound material in his solo work. But in other respects, this effort is every bit as concerned with iteration and inevitability as Marquez’ book. When you flip a switch, something hums. When you layer quiet sounds, they don’t necessarily get louder, but they do exert a stronger magnetism upon your ear. And you when spread your quietness over a vast stretch of silence, efforts to follow the sound inevitably do strange things to your sense of time. Wait, how many years have we been listening to that crackle? Why stop now?

Bill Meyer

Michael Feuerstack — Harmonize the Moon (Forward Music Group)

Harmonize the Moon by Michael Feuerstack

Montreal-based singer-songwriter Michael Feuerstack sweeps aside all extraneous fluff on his new album, Harmonize the Moon, zeroing in on precise finger-picked guitar parts, vivid lyrical imagery and a stark, affecting tone. He has a knack for smuggling blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments of understated wonder into traditional-sounding folk songs you’ll imagine you’ve heard somewhere before. Indeed, he wryly admits to recycling the past in the opening song: “I used to be a singer, bumping around in the astral plane / Picking up astral trash, to polish it up again.” Though the foundation of guitar and vocals carries most of the weight, there’s tasteful reinforcement from vocal harmonies, electric guitar, lap steel, bass and drums. Amid these clean, spare arrangements, some of the lines stop you in your tracks, like the following from “Too Kind”: “The world is broken mirrors, traps and triggers / And cold blood pools in the kindest eyes.” With 10 finely honed songs running to just over half an hour, everything is measured and rather lovely. (Beautiful cover art, too.)

Tim Clarke

Michael and Peter Formanek — Dyads (Out Of Your Head Records)

Dyads by Michael and Peter Formanek

Virtuoso bassist, stalwart sideman, solid bandleader, fearless improviser, intriguing composer — Michael Formanek is all of those things, but he’s also a cool dad. At least that’s what it looks like from the outside. Not only did he include his son, Peter, in his musical activities from an early age, giving the youngster a chance to sit in with the likes of Tim Berne and Jim Black. Upon Peter’s return home from college, he joined him in a working duo. Dyads is their first recording, and it is testimony to the merits of giving the kid first-hand experience in the family business. Peter, who plays tenor saxophone and clarinet, has learned the merits of having a bold tone, a flexible improvisational approach and a way with a tune. Their performances unfold with a combination of patience and pith, which permits the listener to savor the elegance with which each musician supports the other.

Bill Meyer

Chris Forsyth & the Solar Motel Band — Rare Dreams: Solar Live 2.27.18 (No Quarter)

Rare Dreams: Solar Live 2.27.18 by Chris Forsyth & The Solar Motel Band

Chris Forsyth teams with Sunwatchers Peter Kerlin and Jason Robira at London’s Café OTO for expansive, incendiary jams that will remind you like a physical ache of what you’ve been missing in live music this awful year. “Dream in the Non-Dream” is a wide-horizon, endless vamp, driven ever forward by Kerlin and Robira in lock-sync, while Forsyth ratchets up tension with a car jack, then spins it off in wreckless, fiery abandon. “The First Ten Minutes of Cocksucker Blues” similarly balances rigor and open-ended-ness, marking off the measures with a hammering, repetitive cadence that becomes a mantra over time. There are also two Neil Young covers, both tending towards the electrified, Crazy Horse side of things, a slow by blistering “Don’t Be Denied” and a raucous “Barstool Blues” from Zuma. It’s all great stuff, and it might hold you for a month or two until we can all crowd up to the stage again.

Jennifer Kelly

Alexander Hawkins — Togetherness Music (Intakt)

Togetherness Music by Alexander Hawkins

Whether you listen to him in duos with Evan Parker or Tomeka Reid, small bands like the Chicago/London Underground or Decoy, or leading his own ensembles, English keyboardist Alexander Hawkins accompanies and improvises with an astute perception of the situation’s requirements. The title Togetherness Music can be taken several ways. The six-part suite combines parts from two different commissioned pieces, and it brings together elements of free and conducted improvisation, scored chamber music, and some discrete electronic interventions. Passages showcasing Evan Parker’s intricate soprano saxophone lines and Mark Sanders’ kinetic percussion contrast and coexist with rich and patiently evolving string passages executed by the Riot Ensemble. This music feels less like a sum of differing approaches than the expression of a cohesive in which all Hawkins’ good ideas fit together.

Bill Meyer

Russell Hoke — The Melancholy Traveller (Round Bale Recordings)

The Melancholy Traveler by Russell Hoke

This release follows up on the archival compilation A Voice From the Lonesome Playground from 2016 of Hoke’s material from small run releases of the 1980’s. With the new material here, Hoke delves into the unadulterated sound of voice and guitar or banjo, with mainly his own songs of loneliness and also the singularly bittersweet moments of existing as yourself, free and detached from society. Also covering two beautiful takes on Sandy Denny songs, which fit into the UK/US traditional direction of the rest. The album rests in the same delicate territory as other folkies such as Connie Converse, Jackson C. Frank, or even the more sedate songs of Daniel Johnston. What brings the album together is the expressiveness in any given moment of a song. The tact and execution consistently bring the emotion of the songwriting home.

Arthur Krumins

In Layers — Pliable (FMR)

Pliable by In Layers

In Layers puts up a middle finger against anyone who thinks that European unity is a passed fancy. The quartet’s members come from Portugal, Iceland and Holland, and their collective experience encompasses Nordic music theatre, lyric free jazz and the tooth-powderingly loud trio, Cactus Truck. But the music they make doesn’t really sound like any of that. Guitarist Marcelo Dos Reis, drummer Onno Govaert, pianist Kristján Martinsson and trumpeter Luís Vicente improvise music that is spacious enough to frustrate viral transmission, but composed of elements hefty enough to tip a scale. There’s plenty of bravura playing, but the displays are subordinate to the music’s abstract cohesion. You won’t hum it, but you won’t forget it, either.

Bill Meyer

Just For the Record: Conversations With and About “Blue” Gene Tyranny

Composer, writer and pianist Robert Sheff, better known as “Blue” Gene Tyranny, collaborator with everyone from Iggy Pop to Robert Ashley, passed away at the end of 2020. Just before that, David Bernabo’s documentary about Tyranny’s life and work, and more generally about the avant garde world Tyranny was a vital part of, how much of it almost vanished and the ways it continues to be vibrant even today, was released. For a while Just For the Record was available to rent, but this year Bernabo made it available for free on UbuWeb Film. It’s a wonderful watch for anyone who’s a fan of “Blue” Gene’s work, for sure. The conversations with him are near the end of his life, but his evident joy in music and art and people shines through, and the conversations with Joan La Barbara, David Grubbs, Kyle Gann and others cast new light on both his history and work and importance and the group of artists that he worked with and around. There’s so much here you almost wish for a miniseries instead (one episode on reissue labels and blogs, one on Robert Ashley’s operas, one on Tyranny’s time as a Stooge…), but given how overlooked artists like “Blue” Gene Tyranny often are, it still feels like a gift to have what’s here.

Ian Mathers

Kariu Kenji — Sekai (Bruit Direct Disques)

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Sekai is a COVID-era exercise in circumstantial lemonade-making. Kariu Kenji’s band, OWKMJ, executes intricate, quick-changing jazz rock with aplomb. Stuck alone at home, he has made a solo record that never betrays his prodigious dexterity as a guitarist. Instead, Kenji has fashioned an album of low-key, keyboard-heavy bedroom pop. It is low key, almost to a fault, since you could easily miss the subtle fault lines between clean and distorted sounds, let alone the moments when he unobtrusively pulls the rhythmic rug out from under a song. The songs poetically render small memories and quietly absurd scenarios, which are considerately translated for the benefit of people who won’t understand Kenji’s all-Japanese crooning.

Bill Meyer

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkeybirds — Swing from the Sean Delear (In the Red)

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Kid Congo Powers has been in more great bands than anyone I can think of — The Cramps and The Gun Club to start with, but also Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds, Divine Horsemen and, just last year, the Wolfmanhattan Project with Mick Collins and Bob Bert. That’s exalted company all round, and his latest, with Pink Monkeybirds, is no slouch alongside any of them. It begins with a vamping, churning, soul-funk-psychedelic “Sean DeLear,” which commemorates the recently deceased Bay Area punk-fashion icon in exultant, chandelier-swinging style. All three side one cuts are bangers, spinning out Sam & Dave bass-and-drum foundations into dayglow garage extravaganzas, but the 14-minute b-side “He Walked In” takes things in another direction, slowing the pace down and letting the music smoulder, a trippy hippy flute weaving through heat-shimmered desert psychedelia. Like the opener, it’s an elegy, this time to Gun Club front man, Jeffrey Lee Pierce, a haunted surf rock dreamscape where spirits dwell.

Jennifer Kelly

Katy Kirby — Cool Dry Place (Keeled Scales)

Cool Dry Place by Katy Kirby

Katy Kirby makes a stripped down, lofi pop that aspires to bigger things. Even low-key, acoustic strummed, bedroom ballads like “Eyelids” are always on the verge of busting out into flute-y, melismatic diva choruses. Even the tender “Cool Dry Place,” dreams of a big pop payoff and gets there in the end. And the single “Traffic!” is strung through with the tension between its muted, all-natural melody and the crescendoing climax that waits at the end. Here Kirby’s plain, wholesome voice gets threaded with fluttering autotune, not because she can’t hit the notes, but because that’s how big pop songs sound. This is the opposite of Katy Perry doing carpool karaoke. It’s acoustic, unadorned versions of songs that long for mainstream gloss and glamor.

Jennifer Kelly

The Koreatown Oddity — “Breastmilk” b/w “My Name Is Dominique” (Stones Throw)

Breastmilk by The Koreatown Oddity

“I got the hook-up from my baby mama / While you fetish freaks get it off the black market.” If the cover art left any room for doubt, the lyrics soon make it clear that Dominique Purdy’s approach to the subject of his latest single is every bit as literal as it is cartoonish. While albums like last year’s Little Dominiques Nosebleed put the Koreatown Oddity’s powers as a storyteller on full display, the rapper’s rhetorical mode here is ostensibly argumentative, with appeals to the all-naturalness — and deliciousness — of his preferred “regimen”:“You looking at me like I’m a strange human / But you drinking cow’s milk — fuck is you doing?” In the space of just two and a half minutes, he also achieves a hilarious upending of a range of hip-hop tropes, from the objectification of women to the glorification of illicit substances, not to mention MC braggadocio. There may even be a comment on fatherhood in there, too, for anyone who really wants to go looking.

The b-side of the 7” offers something different altogether, a stiff-legged but hypnotic beat beset by periodic electronic splatters and the somewhat manic refrain: “My name is Dominique and I’m a fresh musician.” Indeed.

Eric McDowell

Bobby Lee — Origin Myths (Tompkins Square)

Origin Myths by Bobby Lee

A swamp-gassed shimmer hangs over Bobby Lee’s electric blues, as notes bloom and waver and subside like ghostly lights in a humid dusk. Bobby Lee, the man, lives in Sheffield, England, but his music dwells in some lysergic delta, in the south but not entirely of it or anywhere else. Listen to the way that notes flicker in the steady runs of “Broken Prayer Stick,” a regular cadence of them left to warp and wander in steamy sunshine. Or the way that sustained tones drift like seaweed in “Looking for Pine and Obsidian,” losing themselves in thickets of overtone and echo. Bobby Lee would likely find a kindred spirit in Tarotplane’s PJ Dorsey or in William Tyler in a transcendental mood. Like them, his blues drift towards revelation but very, very slowly.

Jennifer Kelly

Nashville Ambient Ensemble — Cerulean (Centripetal Force)

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Thinking of Nashville doesn't typically bring to mind ambient music, nor does the image of pedal steel guitar typically suggest the work of an electronic composer. Nashville Ambient Ensemble, though, mixes those elements. What makes the group's debut album Cerulean feel special isn't its oddness — other acts, of course, do this sort of dreamy work — but that the Nashville elements remain so present. Pedal steel player Luke Schneider does much of the work to create that feel. The instrument itself has long since moved out of its traditional settings (a quick dip into the music of Susan Alcorn, for example, can prompt a fun rabbit trail of the guitar far removed from Western swing), but composer Michael Hix and this group enjoyably maintain the country signifiers even while moving into far spacier terrain. Some of the album pushes toward psychedelic swirls, but the ensemble restrains these gestures. As they head west out of Nashville, they resist simply playing a given genre with a gimmick. Cerulean isn't spaced out country, and it isn't twanged-up ambient. Instead, the group develops its own curious space.

Justin Cober-Lake

Neutrals — "Personal Computing” b/w “In the Future” (Slumberland)

Personal Computing by neutrals

The clever punk lifers in Neutrals upload two incisive songs about technology here. The a-side, “Personal Technology,” bashes antically through a tale of a young man with an, ahem, very committed relationship with computer paraphernalia, amid crashing, Clash-like chords and rumbling bass and drums. As noted when Neutrals’ 2020 EP Rent/Your House pried Dusted’s Jonathan Shaw away from black metal mid-last year, the front-person Allan McNaughton retains a Glaswegian accent, despite decades stateside, which gives these two cuts a rough Northern post-punk glamor. But the obsession with last year’s state-of-the-art, the excruciating torture of “loading,” is all Silicon Valley, enjoying BDSM with its peripherals. The b-side takes a somewhat more expansive view of technology, asking a la Dan Melchior what happened to the flying cars we were promised. Both are sharp and stinging and utterly catchy. I’d call it old school except for its fascination with the new.

Jennifer Kelly

Nun Gun — Mondo Decay (Algiers Recordings/Witty Books)

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Mondo Decay is the audio component of a recent collaboration between Algiers’ multi-instrumentalist Lee Tesche and visual artist Brad Feuerheim (who drums on four of the tracks). The two bonded over a mutual love of 1970s Italian cannibal zombie films and their soundtracks. Joined by fellow Algiers member Ryan Mahan and a roster of guest vocalists including Mark Stewart (The Pop Group), ONO and Mourning [A] BLKstar, Tesche reconfigures the soundtracks to make explicit the connections between present conditions and the socio-political turmoil that informed the original films. Musically that means claustrophobic dub inflected industrial grind, hip-hop influenced cut-ups, mutant disco and plenty of noirish saxophone. Nun Gun emphasizes atmospheric atrophy and deliberate decay with great and pointed effect to create a terrifically dark soundtrack to accompany the book of Feuerheim’s bleak photographs of post-industrial malaise.

Andrew Forell

Oui Ennui — Virga/Recrudescence (self-released)

Virga/Recrudescence by Oui Ennui

In the words that accompany the release of Jonn Wallen’s second album of 2021, he says that “when rationalizing yet another synthesizer purchase, I've often remarked to myself, ‘Well why wouldn't I want that color? I'll have it.’” It’s that attachment to messing around with new toys, a mass of streaks of rain appearing to hang under a cloud and evaporating before reaching the ground (“Virga”), the recurrence of an undesirable condition (“Recrudescence”), and what seems to be a whole lot of Brian Eno (“Oblique Strategies”) that informs these two extended avant-garde digressions. “Virga” is a roaring 24-minute star birth that veers into plinking helicopter rotaries without warning at one point, while “Recrudescence” covers more ground both literal (it’s 39 minutes) and figurative (woodland creatures, Space Age percolations and various rhythms sprout up throughout). Likely better experienced at high volume in a small club setting, we’ll have to settle instead for our headphones barely handling another intriguing development in the ongoing Oui Ennui experiment. How long before DFA co-founder Jonathan Galkin stops lurking in his Bandcamp buys and starts offering him a deal, I wonder?

Patrick Masterson

Payroll Giovanni \ Cardo — Another Day Another Dollar (BYLUG Entertainment)

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At some point in his career, Payroll Giovanni switched from worker to boss. His new album with the producer Cardo is another chapter in the Boss of All Bosses saga. Songs on the CD approximate the language of business manuals and the cheap sloganeering of workers union reps. Work harder, save more, invest, save again — the usual tips handed down to the unfortunate few who didn’t make it like Payroll did. By the middle of the album, you start to feel like you are at a stakeholders meeting where the CEO went for rapping instead of a PowerPoint presentation. When the rapper fails, it’s hardly the producer’s fault, so Cardo just plays up to Payroll with lazy, muzak-ish beats.

Ray Garraty

Rio da Yung Og \ Nuez — Life of a Yung Og (Southern Giants/Ghetto Boyz)

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Rio da Yung Og has been working with a lot of producers (and quite a few of them later got their fame because of it), but up until now he hasn’t released a collaboration with a single producer. His EP with Nuez came out of nowhere but it is a nice change of beats. Up to now, Rio has mostly recorded his raps with very bassy beats. Nuez provides a Southern vibe, more relaxed and less heavy on the bass, which allows to Rio shine. At this point it’s evident that Rio da Yung Og saves his best lines for his solo work (just compare this EP with simultaneously released Heatcheck EP, a collaborative work with artists of varying degrees of talent). In fact, the whole 21 minutes seem to be recorded in one single sleepless studio session with Rio freestyling his way through under the heavy influence of lean. This is Rio at his most desperate, just before his five-year bid in the federal pen. On “Whatchu Need” and “Last Call” (thanks to Nuez’s production) he sounds close to the early Scarface in a paranoid mode.

Ray Garraty

Ben Roidl-Ward and Zachary Good — arb (Carrier)

arb by Zachary Good and Ben Roidl-Ward

A decade back, bassoonist Ben Roidl-Ward and clarinetist Zachary Good were students at Oberlin College. The two friends formed a duo, The Arboretum, which performed new works. Nowadays they teach and perform separately, but share an apartment in Chicago. When the city got locked down and their gigs dried up, they revived the band, after a fashion. The six pieces on arb (named after that first project), which clocks in at just under half an hour, focus on a single musical phenomenon. Each musician plays sustained multiphonics (a technique whereby a horn player sings or hums a note while playing another) that are pitched close enough that their sounds interfere as well as blend with one another. The interactions can be dramatic; on “Guby,” the clarinet sounds like it is keying morse code into the fabric of the bassoon’s timbres. Listening to this music is a bit like staring at a heat mirage; the harder and longer you focus, the less certain you are of your own perceptions.

Bill Meyer.

Rotura — Estamos Fracasando (Self-released)

Estamos fracasando by Rotura

This new EP of melodic anarcho-punk from Barcelona is deceptively breezy stuff. Rotura’s guitars have some crunch and the rhythm section is tight — think Subhumans c. Rats meets Orange County in 1982. But the alto vocals of Silvia (no last names provided) are clean and tuneful, and there are seductive hooks galore. All the musical excitements and pleasures contrast with the intense reports of misery and struggle in the lyrics. “Pisadas (Confinament)” sounds like a COVID-period song, documenting the sound of footsteps resounding through a network of deserted streets and abandoned shops; “Sobrevivir”engages the manifold alienations and inhumanities that attend the refugee crisis in Europe’s Mediterranean nations. Upbeats subjects, those ain’t. But the music keeps your hips shaking and your head nodding. Rotura constructs lively sonic spaces in which to encounter some sharply political punk discourse. One of the EP’s best songs is “Palabras,” which sets to music a poem included in Svetlana Alexandrovna Alexievich’s The Unwomanly Face of War (1987); like much of that book, “Palabras” speaks in the voice of a female combat veteran of the Soviet Army, one who served in World War II. It’s a terrific song, from a very good punk record.

Jonathan Shaw

Sahara — The Curse (Regain Records)

The Curse by Sahara

Argentine miscreants Sahara bill themselves as a “stoner doom” band, and one wonders why anybody would willingly self-apply a label so surpassingly stupid to music they made and presumably care about. The middle-schooler-with-a-magic-marker degree of technical polish on the art for the cassette’s j-card doubles down on the crispy-fried semiotics — but sort of lovably so. This reviewer was rather charmed. If you can penetrate the choking layers of weed smoke and unironic hesherdom to press play, you may be pleasantly surprised. Sahara’s songs don’t evoke Kyuss or Acid Witch nearly so much as Blue Cheer, and that’s a really good thing. It’s power-trio, bluesy-boogie music, played by dudes who cut their teeth on Master of Reality and No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith (with just a little Physical Graffiti in the mix, for the boogie). While no wheels are being reinvented (or competently balanced, for that matter), there’s a winning rawker quality to the enterprise, kicked up a notch or three by the unambiguously great time these guys are having playing the tunes. It won’t be for everyone: it sounds like it was recorded in someone’s Dad’s garage, and the songs have titles like “Altar of Sacrifice” and “The Curse (instrumental).” But if you love the fact that they included “(instrumental)” in parens, it could be for you. Buyer beware: when listening, you may find yourself suddenly craving a sheet of brownies. The entire sheet.

Jonathan Shaw

Bernard Santacruz / Michael Zerang — Cardinal Point (Fundacja Sluchaj)

Cardinal Point by Bernard Santacruz & Michael Zerang

French bassist Bernard Santacruz and Assyrian-American percussionist Michael Zerang have encountered each other in larger ensembles on either side of the ocean since the turn of the century, but it took them until the autumn of 2019 to record a distillation of their musical concord. Beyond their shared history, they are matched in depth of experience. Both were born in the latter half of the 1950s, and each has passed through a myriad of improvisational settings on their way to developing their respective styles. Santacruz is an economical player with a beautiful, rounded tone. Zerang can supply whatever rhythm you need, but whenever freed from time-keeping requirements, he gravitates to sounds that project the movement and friction required to make them. So, while this is a record made with drums and a double bass, it’s by no means a groove-bound affair; melodic fragments confront seething ruptures, and strings and skins knot together into thickets of texture. Each man maintains his individuality while they jointly solve the problems of collaborative music-making.

Bill Meyer

Ignaz Schick & Oliver Steidle — ILOG2 (Zarek)

ILOG2 by Ignaz Schick & Oliver Steidle

These two German gentlemen lay down a bizarre yet intriguing hybrid of free jazz, hip hop and musique concrète on their sophomore effort as a duo. Schick is a serial collaborator who divides his time between turntablism and saxophone skronk. Steidle, on the other hand, is rooted in the free jazz world as a drummer. Together they conjure two distinct modes: ADHD-inspired percussion-and-noise workouts and atmospheric electronics-forward soundscapes. Between these two disparate personalities, the more aggressive one tends to dominate. It’s in this high-energy state that the duo dwells in the worlds of hip hop, jungle and free jazz. Steidle’s drumming is out in front, as he deftly throws himself around the kit with the enthusiasm of Lightning Bolt’s Brian Chippendale. Schick takes an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach to noise-making. His Bomb Squad-meets-Pierre Schaeffer method of weaving snippets of speech, instrumental passages, drones, and blasts of noise is the perfect foil for Steidle’s frenetic skin-pounding. Schick and Steidle tug at the outer limits of beat-making with their unusual blend of electro-acoustic sound, and while they let a slight touch of the ethereal temper their blaze, the sparks still fly.

Bryon Hayes

John Tejada — Year Of The Living Dead (Kompakt)

Year Of The Living Dead by John Tejada

On Year Of The Living Dead, John Tejada chases the human through machines, seeking the traces of connection and shadows of loss blurred by the conditions we continue to live through. His minimal dub-inflected techno is immaculately produced and composed rather than constructed. Suffused with warmth and emotional depth, Tejada employs a sonic palette the elasticity of which makes his music generously expansive and resonant. Melancholy chord progressions, heartbeat percussion, a bottom end in turns ominous and cocooning. The 4X4 structure provides a framework in which Tejada is free to focus on the granular aspects of tone, pitch, ebb and flow so that while on the surface his brand of microhouse may sound “all the same” there is both plenty of interest for home listeners and danceable beats for the more active. There’s no abrasion here, no confrontation, little to challenge but Tejada’s music moves along with the relentless soft power of molten molasses.

Andrew Forell

Tree — Soul Trap (self-released)

SOUL TRAP by TREE

Tremaine Johnson is one of those heads who’s been around the block. He’s gotten that MTV airtime, he’s done records with Chris Crack and Vic Spencer, he’s outlasted a car company that sponsored one of his EPs, he’s performed at Pitchfork. But maybe more than anything, the Chicago rapper and producer wants to make sure he doesn’t forget his roots as the father of “soul trap” — and you don’t, either. Following steadily on from 2020’s abbreviated The Blue Tape and nearly two years on from his last proper full-length We Grown Now, Tree has lost none of his step as he rounds 40 years aboard this tainted orb exuding the confidence of a relaxed auteur rowing through verses and songs at his own pace; his sandpaper vocals sound at ease with his beats as he addresses negotiating parenthood, bills, the creation and maintenance of his art. Though these tracks had reportedly been sitting around for years before Soul Trap’s release, listening to this album only goes to serve the greater point that the man has a style out of step and time with his contemporaries. That’s worth more than remembering; it’s worth celebrating.

Patrick Masterson

Dave Tucker / Pat Thomas / Thurston Moore / Mark Sanders — Educated Guess (577 Records)

youtube

Hale, hearty, and steeped in the lore of a multitude of American underground art movements, Thurston Moore always seemed like a guy who was creatively rooted in his native soil. But he seems to have found solid footing since moving to England. On this record, he fits right into an improvising ensemble that is composed of Café Oto regulars. Keyboardist Pat Thomas, drummer Mark Sanders and guitarist and electronic musician Dave Tucker, who convened the quartet, are all long-standing members of London’s improvised music scene. But Moore, a punk from way back when, was probably quite tickled that Tucker played with the Fall for a brief spell in 1981. The sound they develop over the course of this set is pleasingly unbounded, with fragments of monster movie sound design and some jungle-style drum machine beats that could have been pulled from a pirate radio broadcast in 1994 sharing space with cavernous prepared piano, restless percussive exploration, and Moore sounding just like himself, but respectfully restrained when the moment demands.

Bill Meyer

Karima Walker — Waking the Dreaming Body (Keeled Scales)

Waking the Dreaming Body by Karima Walker

Karima Walker’s second album considers the full-ness of empty space. Her songs, if that’s what they are, arise out of soft, slow drones that fluctuate in a natural way, like tides or winds or aurora borealis. They incorporate natural desert sounds captured from near at hand as she locked down in Arizona, and they unfold in a sublimely gradual way as if, like the growth of plants, the movement of continents, the melting of snow, they cannot be rushed but must proceed on their own terms. She sings, a bit, in brief, dream-haunted phrases that seem as distant and unknowable as the organ tones that swell around her. “Reconstellated” best represents her eerie blend of human and electronic sounds, internal dialogue and the wide spaces of the natural world. She murmurs, “Sonoran sky plays a movie/Draw a line to the stars inside of me/Write it down, tell your friends/I know where I am but I can’t tell where I started,” against a blipping, percolating atmosphere. The title track is, by contrast, several orders folkier and more conventional, a gentle conjunction of acoustic guitar and Walker’s clear, trilling soprano, as she considers the way the ineffable intersects with the mundane. “Seems every morning starts the same way, waking the dreaming body,” she croons in this track near the end of the album, coming up into the daylight after a long nocturnal exploration.

Jennifer Kelly

Whisker — Moon Mood (Husky Pants)

Moon Mood by Whisker

Bassist Andrew Scott Young and multi-instrumentalist Ben Billington are luminaries of Chicago’s experimental jazz and electronic scenes as members of Tiger Hatchery, soloists and collaborators with a range of local groups. In Moon Mood the duo performs two lengthy improvisations for double bass and electronics. Young’s bass is to the fore, and his bow work is particularly expressive as he explores the registers of his instrument. Billington works a number of patches to interpolate all nature of blips and plinks and squelchy runs that respond to and interrogate the bass. The workouts are as much an investigation of sonic limits as a demonstration of the sympathetic interaction between natural and artificial sounds, if that is even a worthwhile dichotomy these days. Moon Mood is a fascinating conversation well worth eavesdropping on.

Andrew Forell

Wode — Burn in Many Mirrors (20 Buck Spin)

Burn In Many Mirrors by Wode

The guys in Manchester-based band Wode play black metal, but they don’t wear corpsepaint or futz around with severed goat’s heads and candelabras. That’s a good thing, because their music has bombast aplenty. Any additional theatrics might send the project over into a species of irritating kitsch. When Wode’s music works — as it does on “Lunar Madness,” the first track on the band’s latest LP, Burn in Many Mirrors — it’s muscular stuff, with terrific momentum and gut-thudding energy. Throughout the song, vocalist Michael Czerwoniuk does his usual stuff, chewing the sonic scenery, plentiful groans and gurgles punctuating all his shouting. Even in the maximalist context of black metal vocals, he’s a handful. But on “Lunar Madness,” there’s enough interest and excitement generated by the rhythms and riffs to offset his histrionics. A couple songs on the record are shaped by oft-handled forms, and rely overmuch on Czerwoniuk’s outsized presence; upon listening to “Fire in the Hills,” you may find yourself flashing on the self-parodic antics of Jim Dandy Mangrum, or on metal heroics that were already tired on records like Bark at the Moon. That’s too bad. When Wode clicks as a unit, they can make compelling sounds. “Sulphuric Glow” moves at a dead run for nearly the entirety of its five minutes, and while Czerwoniuk’s vocal stylings are still a bit much, the riffs are fluid and furious. If he could just dial stuff back to 11, folks might be able hear the rest of the band. They’re pretty good.

Jonathan Shaw

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blazestarninja13 · 4 years

Text

Dianakko Week [Day 1: Childhood friends]

@dianakko-week

FYI: Like my Hamanda Week stuff (check those out if you haven’t already), I will be posting these on both Tumblr and AO3. So I’ll be putting the AO3 link for each story as well!

It’s finally time for Dianakko Week, where we celebrate everyone’s favourite dumb brunette and smart cabbage! This first story mostly takes place at the 2007 Chariot show that both Diana and Akko attended (You know, THAT one)

So without further ado, let us begin Dianakko week!

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081233/chapters/63436006

The year was 2007, the night was warm, and the stars were twinkling above the neon-filled streets of Tokyo. However, in the middle of the neon and electric atmosphere, was a park filled with people who were buzzing in excitement for Shiny Chariot’s Magical Festa show.

Amongst the buzzing crowd was Diana Cavendish.

Little Diana had been waiting for this very special night for ages now. This was a trip that her mother had organized especially for her just so she could see this show. Sadly, however, her mother fell ill, which meant that one of the many servants of the Cavendish manor had to take her. Even though her mother couldn’t attend, Diana was still hyped for the show and was positive that one day, she and her mother would be able to see a Chariot show together.

The time got closer and closer to the beginning of the show. Diana couldn’t keep still in her seat. She was finally going to be face to face with her magical idol, Shiny Chariot, whom she admired even though it was frowned upon by everyone else she knew back home except for her mother, who was supportive of her passions.

As she flicked her head around the place, taking in the atmosphere, she noticed a brown-haired girl that was roughly the same age as her in the row in front of her. The girl was wearing a magnificent replica of Chariot’s iconic hat. Diana knew that this girl was definitely another Chariot fan like her, so she decided to talk to her.

“Hey, I really love your hat? Where did you get it from?” Diana eagerly spoke as she tapped the girl’s shoulder from behind.

When Diana finally saw the girl’s face, she noticed that she had dazzling ruby eyes. Diana mentally noted that this girl had beautiful eyes.

“Oh, thanks! It’s a special Japan-only item.” the girl happily replied as she smiled wide.

“That’s so cool! They don’t have cool Chariot stuff like that where I come from.” Diana replied.

Suddenly, the other girl’s face lit up in joy.

“So you’re a Chariot fan too? That’s awesome!”

Diana giggled. Talking to this girl felt nice since no one else she knew liked Chariot.

“Yes I am, I’ve always loved and admired her magic and the amazing things she does. I don’t really have friends back at home that like her,” she responded

The girl gave a friendly and excited smile as she abruptly grabbed Diana’s hands with her own two warm hands.

“Maybe we can be friends and talk about Chariot together! My name is A-”

Suddenly, loud, triumphant music started to play and the lights were dimming. It was time for the show to begin.

“I’ll talk to you after the show!” The friendly girl excitedly whispered as Diana quickly nodded in agreement and headed back to her own seat to observe the spectacle that was soon to come.

Diana felt happy that she had finally met someone else her age that was just like her. She had found a friend.

However, after the show, Diana would end up trying to look for the girl in the audience but to no success. She would be sad that her new friend had disappeared and would end up whispering something to herself as the servant took her back to the hotel they were staying in.

“I hope I get to meet you again someday, new friend…”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

11 years later…

Diana’s eyes suddenly shot open as she jerked herself forward as to be sitting upright in her bed with her legs still covered by the fluffy quilt that lay on it.

She had made a shocking realization as she whispered to herself so that she didn’t wake up Hannah and Barbara who were both still sound asleep.

“That….was Akko!?”

#dianakkoweek #diakko #diana cavendish #akko kagari #lwa #dianakko week 2020

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cherryhanji · 4 years

Text

Winter Shenanigans

oneshot. bangchan x reader

genre: romance, fluff, roommate!au, college!au, friends to lovers!au nonIdol!bangchan

words: 8.3k

warning(s): some swearing, I guess

(Anyways~~~ it's my first longest oneshot using a first-person pov. I feel like I want to write this using it. I hope you enjoy it! Luvlots!)

Winter is the worst season for me. Reason? It's cold and melancholic. That's it. I never knew why people loved the winter the most. Ever since I was a kid, I never liked the idea of playing with friends on snowy roads, throwing snowballs here and there. I don't like the coldness of winter that brings me. And what made it worse? My ex-boyfriend dumped me on a cold, winter night. Fuck him and his shitty reasons.

Anyways, I've already moved on. I'm now happily living with my roommate slash best friend, Alexa. Same college sophomores and majors. We're both majoring in Psychology. My parents decided to let me become independent. I'm thankful that I have loving and supportive parents. We both live in a cozy apartment near our school. And that all makes it easy. I just need to think about my college life and our monthly rental pay. Simple, but full of pressure but I still enjoy it because I have my best friend with me. But still, I hate winter.

"Uhm y/n, can I talk to you?" Coming out from her room, Alexa called me softly as if she was hesitating to tell me what she wants to say.

"Hmm, what is it, Lexie?" I tapped the space between the sofa.

"You know about my mother right?" She carefully asked

"Uhm, of course. Why? Is she doing well?" I asked with a bright face. Her mother is ill. She's now bedridden but I hope that she's doing well.

"Unfortunately, no." She said and lowered her head.

"O-oh. Sorry about that. What are you gonna do?" I slowly caress her back.

"Uhm, I am planning to skip the next semester as I need to go back to Gyeonggi-do. It's hard for me. But it's my mother. I can do anything if it's her." She said. I froze, shocked at her confession. But my face softens as I understand her situation.

"Uhm. Are you going to stay there for good?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no. I'm not sure. But sorry to tell you, y/n. I think you need to find a new roommate. I'm really sorry. You can't pay the rent alone so I suggest if you look for another roommate. I'm sorry if I have to leave you. My bad, winter's coming, and here I am, leaving you alone." She said and half-smiled at me. She knows that I really hate winters, especially alone.

I smiled at her to let her know that it's okay.

"No Lexie, don't be sorry. Don't worry about me. How can I be mad at you if it's important to you? Don't mind me. I'm okay. I can find a roommate. But I'll miss you. I'll miss your rants, your screams, our drunk nights after exams. I'll miss hanging out with you. Just be good, and I'll pray for your mother's recovery." Alexa can't help but cry at me. I just hugged her tightly and shush her.

"Thank you, really, y/n. I don't know what will I do without you. I'll miss you too, idiot. Don't worry, there's facetime, and DMs yah know. We can update each other." She said while sniffing her cries. I'll miss my only college best friend. But still sad because I have to endure the incoming winter season. I need to find a roommate soon.

After cleaning the whole day. I decided to contact my new roommate.

Two weeks since Alexa left and within that period, I can't still find a roommate. I even asked the good landlord to help me find one. She gladly accepts it and now she's in front of me, delivering me the good news.

"So here it goes, y/n. I found you a new roommate." She gladly told me.

"Really? Thank you very much! Don't worry, I'll pay you tomorrow for the rent next month." I said.

"Oh no, darling. Don't mind it. He already paid your rent for the next month." She said. Wait, what?? HE??! As in a male? A boy? A man??

"Wait a minute, he, you mean-" she laughed at my shocked reaction.

"Yes, darling, it's a guy. Isn't he so sweet? By the way, he also goes to your school. And he's so handsome. Bet you'll have your eyes out when you see his gorgeous face." She said describing the guy as if he was some lost God who fell on Earth.

"Uh, really? I'm glad to know that we attend the same school. Anyway, when will he move? So I can clean at least the apartment." I asked as I take a look at the apartment. It isn't that dirty because I am a tidy person and so as Alexa, but I feel like it's kinda embarrassing if I didn't clean at least a little bit. Seems like I want to leave a good impression on my new roommate.

"He said he can move anytime if the apartment is ready. Here. Here's his contact. You can message him if the apartments ready." She handed me a card that has a contact number in it.

"Thank you for this," I said and accept the card she handed.

"I need to go. You can call me if you have any concerns. Have fun y/n, with your new roommate." She said and gave a playful wink at me. I just chuckled at her playfulness. Maybe I need to get ready.

I smiled as I send the message. Winter is now starting so I made myself a cup of hot tea. Winter sucks really. Fuck this cold weather. But I wonder why it doesn't feel like melancholic as I said it was? Maybe because of my new roommate? Is it because the landlord told me that he's handsome? Or maybe I'm excited because I got to have a new friend and luckily also attending my school? Who knows?

to: new roommate [22:47]

hello! This is y/n. your new roommate at Yellow Wood Apartment. I am glad to tell you that the apartment's ready. You can move tomorrow. Excited to meet you!

Winter season means there's a possibility of having no classes because of the weather. And that's what I'm facing today. I'm sitting on the couch with my lonely ass and cold feet. As I scroll on my phone, I can't see anything different but people posting their lives every winter, playing outside, enjoying the coldness of the weather. Ugh. Winter shit. I just played some music on my phone as I cook some ramen for myself. This is the only thing that makes me sane every winter. Calm music and ramen.

As I gave myself a hearty meal, the doorbell rang making me shift from where I sit. Maybe it's my new roommate. I fixed myself first in the mirror to make myself at least presentable even if I look like shit.

"Coming!" I shouted as I stumble on my way to the door. I gladly open it and froze in front of a god. Oh no, is he really my new roommate? Is this man sent from above my new roommate?

"Uhm, hi! Y/n right?" The man in front of me snapped me back in reality. I shook my head as he spoke.

"Oh yeah, h-hi .." I said shyly. Oh shit calm your ass down bitch. I look like I'm whipped for this man even though we only met for the first time.

"It's Bang Chan, but you can call me Chan, Chris, Christopher, or baby if you like?" He gave me a suggestive wink. Just what the actual fuck? Is he okay? How can he be this confident in front of me??! He just laughed at my shocked reaction.

"Just kidding. I'm a good person. You can trust me. But, Can I first go inside? It's kinda cold here." He said as he shifted from where he stands.

"Oh! Yes yes! Sorry. Here, let me get these." I said as I reached for his small backpack that was on the floor.

"No, it's okay. I'll look like an asshole if I let a gorgeous girl handle my things." He smiled sweetly to me as he grabbed all his things and went inside the apartment. Gorgeous? Me? Gorgeous? Oh god, what will I do now if I have this gorgeous guy as a roommate?

I showed him his new room and smiled brightly as he saw the cleanliness of it.

"Did you fix this yourself? Woah, It's an eye candy. I'm a minimalistic person. And this makes me so happy. Thank you for fixing this!" He said as he sat on the new fixed bed. I smiled as I saw how he enjoyed his new room.

"Uhm, thanks for appreciating it, Chan. I'm glad that you liked it. Would you like to have a look at the apartment?" I asked him as he still taking a look at his room.

He stands up from the bed and smiled at me. "I would love to!" I went first and he followed me everywhere I go.

"Well, I wish we have good memories as new roommates. I said and gave him a glass of orange juice.

"Yeah. I hope too. By the way, you're a college sophomore, right? Where do you study? Bet it's near the apartment." He said as he drinks his juice.

"Yes. I study at Levanter University. A psychology major. I heard from the landlord that you also attend there. What are you majoring in?" I said as I sit down on the chair.

"Really? It's good to know that we attend the same school. I'm also a sophomore, majoring in Music. I really love music. Ever since I was a child, I've dreamt of being a professional music artist and composer. That's why I chose it as my major." He said. I can see that he really loves music as his eyes twinkle when he talked.

"Really? I hope I can hear you sing someday." I clasped my hands in excitement.

"Oh yeah sure Uh, by the way, who used to live here with you? Is it also a guy?" He curiously asked as he put his elbow on the table with hands on his chin.

"My best friend used to live here. But sadly she needs to go in her hometown to look after her sick mother." I told him. His face saddens a little bit.

Time passed by and we grew close to each other. I found out that he has these gorgeous eight friends since middle school. But some of them are not studying in our school. Jeongin, his youngest friend, looks like my younger brother, so I grew close to him the most. He's so caring, sweet, and lovely. Meanwhile, Changbin and Minho are the ones who also study in our school, like Chan, Changbin is also majoring in music. Minho is majoring in Business Administration. While the others, Hyunjin, Felix, Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin are freshmen from other universities. They usually hang out at our apartment and I'm no against in it. I really love hanging out with them. They're so approachable and funny.

"Oh sorry to hear that. I hope your friend and her mother are doing fine." He said and smiled at me. I nod at him in response.

"Isn't it nice today? Winter is already here! It's good to have a cup of hot coffee and a heartful talk." He said as he looked at the window outside.

"I don't think so. I'd never like winter." I shrugged as I drink my juice. He looked back at me as if I was some crazy woman.

"You don't like winter? But why? People love it. It's nice and cozy, I live winter actually." He said and looked at me.

"I just don't like it. I like warm summer, autumn, and spring. Winter never excites me. Even when I was a kid. And my boyfriend dumped me on a cold winter night. That made worse. " I explained to him carefully. He just nods at me. Accepting my hate for winter.

"Oh I see, so how do you endure winter? I mean what do you do when the season comes?"

"I just hang out with my friend. Drinking, eat ramen, or anything that makes us warm. But when I'm alone, I usually sleep or binge-watched some dramas." I said and he nods in response.

"Hmm, it's not that boring tho. Me, I usually write songs and make some mixtapes when winter comes. I just love the feeling and emotions that winter gives me. In that way, I can make my music."

"Really? Wow, you're talented. I wish I have that kind of talent too. But I suck at those." You shrugged and chuckled. He just smiled and talk further.

Alexa decided to study next semester but in her hometown. I'm sad knowing that she'll not continue to study here but we promised each other that we'll contact and update each other.

"Noona!" Jeongin surprised me with a hug as I opened the door of the apartment.

"Oh my Jeongin! How are you, my little boy? Come inside. Hey guys!" I let them inside the apartment. Another noise from the freshmen including Changbin. It's always like this. Every time they go here. It's always this noisy. But I love it. It makes me happy and not alone.

"Hey Channie," I said as I welcomed Chan who looks tired.

"Oh hi, y/n. how's school? Sorry, I let you go home by yourself. I was just busy and these stupid boys asked me to meet them."

"Oh, it's okay. I prepared you some food." I said and cling my arms to his. We always do this. It's very comfortable and I feel like I'm in my home.

"Thank you, dear," he said and ruffled my hair. Oh. That nickname. Fuck. It makes my heart do somersaults. Is it normal to feel this for a friend like him?

"Hey lovebirds, we brought some colas and pizzas!" Minho shouted from the living room as they prepare the food they brought.

"Shut up Minho! Mind your goddamn business there!" Chan shouted

"Okay then!" Minho replied and burst a laugh.

We just sat and decided to watch the newest drama we happened to saw on Netflix.

"I'm freaking tired. Chan-hyung! I think I need to go by now. We still have exams for tomorrow, right Hyunjin?" Seungmin said as he stands up and yawned.

"Oh shit! Right! Hyung! We need to go now! I need to review some past lessons." Hyunjin said as he ready himself to go. The others also get ready. I decided to stand up and try to clean up.

"Let's do that, later. Let's say goodbye first to the boys." Chan said and I just nod in response.

"Goodbye Chan hyung! Goodbye noona! Good night!" Changbin and others bid their goodbyes.

"Yeah, yeah goodnight! " chan said as he pushed the boys out. I chuckled and waved my hand at them.

"Maybe it's time to clean up," I said and Chan nodded and went to the living room to clean.

The annoying alarm woke me up. I still have my classes on Saturdays. But Chan doesn't. When he first wakes up than me, he usually asked me to walk me in school. But sometimes he wakes up late, I just prepare some breakfast for him and leave a note telling him that I left.

As I walk out of my room, I heard some shufflings and noise from the kitchen.

"Morning sunshine! Eat and get ready for your classes." Chan greeted me and smiled.

"Morning Channie. You wake up again early?" I said as I sit down on my chair.

"Yep. I woke up early and can't go back to sleep so here, I prepared us breakfast." He said as he finished cooking and sit beside me.

"Thank you then," I said and started eating.

"I'm going to the mall near the university. Mind if I walk you to school?" He asked

"Hmm. Is it okay?"

"Of course. Hah! " he said and chuckled

"Thanks though. What are you going to do in the mall?" I asked him

"Uh, it's Changbin's birthday on the 11th. I planned to buy him some gifts."

"Really? We should celebrate it here!" I clasped my hand as excitement fills me. It's my first time to celebrate a new friend's birthday.

"Sure thing. I'll wait for you later after classes. Just text me if you're done." I nod at him and he smiled. So excited to celebrate Changbin's birthday. It's two days from now.

We just walked from the apartment to school as I still have a lot of time before my first class starts.

"So see you later y/n. do well, okay?" He pinched my cheeks and scrunched his nose.

"Yes, I will. Now go to the mall and buy Changbin a nice gift." I waved my hand at him as I went inside.

I met Minho at the cafeteria. Luckily we have the same schedule of break time.

"Y/N!" Minho went near me with food in his hands.

"Oh hello, Minho! Uh, can I ask you something?" I asked him and let him sit down on the chair beside me.

"Uhm, what is it?" Minho said as munched on his food.

"It's about Changbin. Do you know anything he loves? Like favorite clothing? Perfumes? Or what? It's his birthday the day after tomorrow, right?" I said and sip on my drink

"Oh yeah, Changbin isn't a picky person. As long as it's from a good friend, he'll love it." He tilted his head and chuckled.

"Oh, it's kinda hard. But anyway, thank you for that. I'm going to buy him a gift later. And I asked Chan to celebrate it the apartment." I said

"Really? That's a good idea! By the way, it's already time. Need to go back! See you around!" Minho stands up and bid his goodbyes. I waved at him and decided to attend my last class.

"Y/n!" Chan waved at me as I saw him outside the campus.

"Hey Channie!" I smile while happily ran to him.

"You look cute doing that," Chan said and ruffled my hair. I lowered my head to hide the lingering blush on my cheeks.

"Channie, do you mind if we go to the mall again? I just want to buy Changbin a gift."

"Hmm.. Sure! I'll help you. " he said and took my hand. God, why is he doing this? He so freaking sweet. I feel like I'm having a date with my boyfriend. Wait-- fuck boyfriend?? Erase erase. We're just friends, okay?

After I got the best gift for Changbin, I decided to take a look at the shelf and found this cute little thing that caught my eye. I took it and stare at it like it holds my future in it.

"You like that one? It's cute." Chan said as he also takes a look at the music box.

"Uh, yeah. But nevermind. I didn't bring enough money for it." I put it back to the shelf as I have no plans on buying it. But I turned to Chan as he grab again the music box and grabbed my hand.

"Let's take it. I'll pay for it for you." Chan smiled and went to the cashier.

"Hey, Chan! You don't have to." I pulled back his arms.

"No. Think of it as my gift for you. A gift to my friend. Don't worry." He said and went to face the cashier and hand his payment to her.

"Thank you for this! I really appreciate it!" I said as I stare at it again and listen to the calming music playing.

"See? You love it. What will happen to you if I didn't buy it?" he chuckled and turn his head to me. Oh no, I know he's staring at me, and stop these loud heartbeats! He might hear it! Why are you like this?? It's a simple gift. Do I like him? Yes, I appreciate all the efforts he did and the small things that he did for me. Do I already like him? I mean, it's not a bad thing if it is. But I'm scared that he might not feel the same. But it doesn't matter to me for now. I just need to forget these lingering feelings.

Changbin's day dropped on a fine Saturday. All of the boys went here including the birthday boy to help in preparing for the party later.

"Need help in cooking?" Chan asked peeking from the kitchen entrance.

"Uhm, yes, please. Changbin's foods are quite a lot!" I said as I cut the ingredients for my own version of kimchi fried rice.

"Poor little y/n. here you go." Chan started to help me, asking what should he do, or what ingredients to put next.

"They're so noisy, aren't they?" Chan chuckled as he groaned to the noise from the living room.

"Don't act like you're not one of them Channie," I teased and smacked his arm.

"Why? I'm a good boy!" I glared at him and he just laughed at me.

"Hey sweethearts! Where are the foods?" Changbin went to us while wearing his birthday hat. It's his idea. 22 years old my ass.

"Just you wait little prince, the food is nearly ready," I said

"Go away Changbin! You're so excited as hell, it's still early! Mind your business outside!" Chan said and shoo Changbin away. He just huffed and pouted at us.

"Happy Birthday hyuuung!" The juniors greeted him cheerfully after we sang him a happy birthday.

After lots of drinking and eating, the other boys were now drunk. Leaving me, Jeongin, Seungmin, and Felix sober. I chose not to drink a lot as I thought of having atleast one here have a sober mind.

I woke up peacefully without the sound of an alarm. Sunday morning. No classes, a good day to rest. But I need to clean first the mess outside.

*ring ring

"Hello? Y/N?" It's Alexa! I missed her voice.

That night, Chan brought some pizzas and colas for us. Watching some movies before going to sleep.

After our classes, Chan and I went first to a fast-food chain to buy some food.

"Lexie~" I screamed at the top of my lungs running to Alexa

"So, how's living together?" Alexa said as she grabbed a slice of pizza and bite on it.

"What do you think you're doing Alexa?" I whisper shouted at her while Chan left and went to the bathroom.

Alexa slept early because of the long travel she took. Me, on the other hand, still resting on the couch, scrolling through my phone, when I felt someone sit beside me.

"Take care of my friend, Chan. I can count on you, right?" Alexa said turned to us before she goes outside.

Winter is near again. And Chan's one year here is near too.

I just need a simple outfit since it's fucking cold outside. But shit, we're going to his parent's house. Maybe it's not bad if I wear something nice beneath my thick parka. Ugh. Why do I feel so nervous? As if I'm getting judged by his parents later. Calm your ass down, y/n. it's just dinner. No more, no less.

Winter is now starting and here I am again, sulking at one corner. We're out of fucking tea! My one and only partner in this season! Fuck!

"Y/n! You ready?" Chan knocked on my door while I'm still getting my bag.

"We're here. I'm glad to show you around my childhood home. This is where I grow up together with my siblings. It's nice isn't it?" Chan said and faced me.

"So y/n, is Chan a good roommate to you?" Chan's dad asked me. Like him, Chan's dad is a good looking man. Like Chan in his 40's. something like that.

"Where are we going?" I asked Chan as he wears his shoes going outside.

I guess winter is not that bad. Especially when Chan is always here beside me, he can make my winter warm and comfortable.

"It's quite calm and quiet isn't it?" Chan said as he stares from nowhere. I just shrugged at him and swayed my feet.

#stray kids #straykids #stray kids bang chan #straykids bang chan #bangchan #bang chan #skz bang chan #stray kids oneshot #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #straykids scenarios #straykids imagines

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thenihilistofthevoid · 3 years

Text

Stolen from @fordfrontalnews FULL NAME: Saburo Kusanagi

NICKNAME: Doc, K, Dr. Kusanagi

HISTORICAL CONNECTION? : Isamu Kusanagi, a daimyo during the Warring States periods of Japan, famous for his many duels over the honor of his male lover and the poetry they used to write to each other.

AGE : 25

BIRTHDAY : November 13th

ETHNIC GROUP : Japanese-Asian

NATIONALITY : Americian (Naturalized, formerly Japanese)

LANGUAGE / S : Fluent English and Japanese, Spanish and Latin

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Homosexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Polyromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS : For this verse, he is @fordfrontalnews‘s boyfriend.

HOME TOWN / AREA : Original Hometown: Tokyo, Japan. Compton, LA for post immigration.

CURRENT HOME : A 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom apartment on the 4th floor of an apartment complex in a decent area of Compton. One room is his bedroom and another is his hobby room. He has a living room.

PROFESSION : Police Profiler/Criminal Psychologist.

Physical?

HAIR : Black

EYES : Black

FACE : Angular, sharp and often stubbled. Pale skin and the odd wrinkle from sleepless nights.

TATTOOS : None

HEIGHT : 5’6

BUILD : He’s lean, angular and slender with a somewhat prominent ribcage which you’d feel if you hugged him tight enough.

USUAL HAIR STYLE : Short, looks like it hasn’t seen a hairbrush in eons, worn however he can be bothered to style it. Neatens nicely with some work that he isn’t normally willing to put in.

FACE LOOK : Calm, somewhat blank to guard his true emotions and analytical. Often smiles when he’s worked something out.

USUAL CLOTHING : Often a suit and tie for his work, casually he wears jumpers or cardigans over a long-sleeved shirt since he feels the cold, casually jeans or sometimes a tracksuit if he’s feeling really lazy. Either dress shoes, trainers or sometimes boots.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : American police (due to racial profiling and the high incidence of fatal shootings concerning POC which he knows is a paradox since he works with them as his job), guns, abduction (multiple abductions from serial killers in his line of work), being outed.

ASPIRATION / S : To cure the mentally ill and to try and stop serial killings in his small neighborhood. (Private) Keep his mother happy and to someday return to Japan.

POSITIVE TRAITS : Caring, smart, witty, lateral-thinking, eccentricity makes him more approachable.

NEGATIVE TRAITS : For a psychologist he can be quite detached and tone-deaf, self-confident, cocky, distracted.

ZODIAC : Scorpio

TEMPERAMENT : Calm and collected, oddly probing and somewhat impersonal to those he isn’t familiar with as a defense mechanism.

ANIMALS : One dog named Aoba, a Japanese Spitz.

VICE / S : Casual trespassing, psychoanalyzing friends, smoking (when stressed), fast cars.

GHOSTS ? : No.

AFTERLIFE ? : No thank you.

REINCARNATION ? : No.

ALIENS ? : Only on Doctor Who.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Social Justice-minded Left-wing.

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : Good level of comfort, enough to afford his fast cars and his treats for Aoba as well as being able to take the odd holiday back to Japan and to look after his mother.

SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : Middle Class.

EDUCATION LEVEL : Graduation from University of California, Los Angeles with a MD in Psychology with his specialization being Criminal Psych and Profiling.

Family!

FATHER : Yuichirou Kusanagi (Died when Saburo was 12, formerly a police officer.)

MOTHER: Asaka Kusanagi (Doctor of Medicine, emigrated to America when her company wanted to head up a genetics laboratory in L.A.)

SIBLINGS : Shoichi Kusanagi (Formerly a prosecutor, became a 2nd Lieutenant to a Yakuza clan after his firm fucked him over and he needed a way to release his violent tendencies. Saburo is scared of him and doesn’t like being contact by him.) Jin Kusanagi (Saburo’s much more respectable middle brother, a veterinarian who specializes in treating rabbits. Jin runs a successful Youtube Channel focused on rabbit care.)

EXTENDED FAMILY : Kairi Kusanagi (Shoichi’s daughter and Saburo’s niece, arrangements are that Kairi is flown to the US if Shoichi dies and Saburo adopts her.) Amaterasu & Tsukuyomi (Jin’s rabbits, Saburo considers pets family), Kiryu (Shoichi’s German Shepherd)

Favorites?

BOOK : 1984 by George Orwell.

5 SONGS : Mambo No. 5 by Lou Bega, SIGN by Flow (He’s a Naruto weeb), Chequered Love by Kim Wilde, Gold by Prince, Freedom by La-Vie

HOLIDAY : Christmas

MONTH : September

SEASON : Autumn

PLACE : Library

WEATHER : Thunderstorms, the worse the better

TASTE / S : Sweet

FEEL / S : Leather, warmth, suade, cotton

ANIMAL / S : Dogs, Cats, Fennec Foxes (He finds the big ears cute)

NUMBER : 7

COLOR : Gold, Red, Blue

Extra!

TALENTS : Drawing, public speaking, psychological profiling, singing (You might have to get him slightly drunk to do it in public), dancing, driving

BAD AT : Being patient, physical exercise, punctuality, not going off on tangents when psychoanalyzing.

TURN ONS : Rope Bondage (Formerly, being tied up now gives him abduction flashbacks from serial killers and will cause a panic attack), Roleplaying, being praised, emotional intimacy, being carried.

TURN OFFS : Aggression, insults, bad hygiene, being pinned down (Due to the abduction), being hurt (same reason)

AESTHETIC : Starbucks Espresso, blue plastic bag (he carries everything in it), sakura petals (his bedroom wallpaper and phone case pattern), chocolate, manga and books (usually reading if waiting for something like being called in a court case), cake (Has the same diet as L from Death Note), pens (scribbling down notes).

QUOTES : “This is the land of a thousand words, but it seems so few are worth the breath to say.”

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midnight1990 · 3 years

Text

Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead. I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home. I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes - that he knows things about you.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.

#harry potter fic #death eaters #order of the phoenix #hp fanfic #lucius malfoy #slytherin #knockturn alley #dark fanfiction #my coping mechanism

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tragically-broken · 4 years

Text

Coffee Stains pt. 7

Ship(s): Feysand, Nessian, Elriel Type: College AU Word Count: 1,161

Hi everyone! I started this fic back in 2016 (for those of you who have been with me since then HELLO & I LOVE YOU!), but I didn’t finish right away ofc so then it got lost! I was so upset. I found what I could on my computer and then re-wrote some and started an ao3 account. However, since then my bestie was able to recover my work and get my tumblr account back to working again! YAY!

If you prefer to read on ao3 my link is here! Everything is the same except the name of this story is “Falling Apart or Falling Into Place” and chapter 4 is a bit different since I re-wrote it thinking it was lost. The ao3 account also has all my other fics that I have started OR you can find them on this tumblr master-post here.

I’m using this quarantine to prove to myself that I can actually finish something I started and then get back to working on my own WIP.

ENJOY <3

pts. 1-6

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Az brought Elain to a restaurant she had never been to or even heard of before. It was small and quaint inside, giving off a sense of warmth. The dark wood walls and flooring made it feel like a homie little cabin instead of a public eating area. The waitress seated them in the back corner booth as requested from Az and she couldn’t help but notice how at home Az looked. It was almost like looking at a younger version of him from the past. How he would have looked before life tried to tear him down with trauma and misfortune. She didn’t know too much about his past because Az was an extremely private person, but what she did know was bad enough. She hated to imagine the things he left private and kept to himself. Elain and Az grazed the menu in comfortable silence. Everything here sounded delicious.

“I didn’t have much of anything growing up” Elain looked up at Az surprised at his sudden words. “ and what I did have was normally shared. As you know, I didn’t have much of a family but Rhy’s mom brought me here for my 16th birthday. It was the nicest place she could afford and the nicest place I had ever been to. I haven’t been back here since she passed.” Az paused for a moment, thinking about her. “ I never thought I would come back actually. But, these past few days I’ve missed her more than usual. She was a tough old broad, but she loved fiercely and treated me as her own. I drove Rhys crazy.” Az chuckled at the memory. “They were-are my family, and tonight is the first night that I’ve wanted to share this place with someone else.” Az looked at her then, menu long forgotten. Elain reached across the table for his hand. Az wasn’t much for physical touch but he let her hold his scarred hand in her delicate soft one.

“I love it here.” Elain looked deep into his eyes.

“You don't have to say that”

“No, I mean it. It has a wonderful character and you can tell that it's small, but it's cherished. Plus, everything on the menu looks delicious. Do you remember what you ordered on your birthday?”

“I could never forget, Lemon Noodle Soup.” Elain lightly rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb.

“Really? I never begged you for a soup person.”

“I wasn’t- still not. But it was the cheapest thing on the menu. But don’t you worry about that, you can get whatever you want of course. My treat.”

“Good evening!” The waitress startled them out of their trance as Elain let go of his hand. “My name is Beverly and I’ll be your server this evening.”

“Thank you, Beverly.” Az gave her a polite smile.

“Do you two still need a moment? Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I’ll have the Lemon Noodle Soup,” Elain said matter-of-factly as Az whipped his head toward her.

“Elain you don’t need to-”

“That’s what I want.” Elain smiled at him as she closed her menu. He looked at her, with shocked awe.

“I’ll have the same.” He closed his menu unable to take his eyes off her. The waitress scribbled their order on her notepad.

“And to drink?”

“Chardonnay please, is that okay with you?”

“And a glass of water”

“Of course, everything will be out shortly.” The waitress walked away with their menus in hand.

“I doubt you had chardonnay when you were sixteen!”

“Rhys actually snuck scotch from the kitchen as we left and we drank it that night while mom was asleep. We pretended to like it of course, even as we coughed from it. There was a brief moment of hysterics and then deep sleep. It was- well wonderful. One of my favorite memories.”

“I’d like to meet him someday.”

“I’d like that too.”

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“Are you fucking serious?” Nesta stood with her arms crossed on the sidewalk.

“You said you wanted the best burgers in town! Well, this is it, sweetheart.” Cassian dramatically gestured to the run-down old cart.

“A single cart in the middle of the road isn’t exactly what I had in mind. It doesn’t even look structurally sound.”

“Live a little won't you Nesta?” Cassian nudged her shoulder playfully.

Nesta scoffed, brushing him off, but gave in.

“Let’s get this over with. I’m hungry.”

“That's the spirit!” Cassian excitedly marched in front of her.

“If I die from food poisoning, I'm using my afterlife to haunt you.”

“As long as you promise to visit me at night.” Nesta smacked him in the arm, hard.

“NASTY BASTARD!!” Cassian chuckled as they moved up the line.

“Good evening Sir, I’ll have a number 2 meal with a rootbeer and- do you trust me?”

“Not even a little. I’ll have the number 1 special with extra mushrooms and pepper jack cheese instead of cheddar and extra pickles on the side.”

“And to drink?”

“Do you serve alcohol”

“No, sorry ma'am”

“I suppose I’ll suffer the company sober.” She eyed Cassian up and down with distaste.

“There's a bar two blocks from here if you'd like.”

“Best not to prolong this evening.” Nesta nodded her thanks and walked away from the cashier as Cassian faked pain in his chest.

They waited for their food as Nesta shifted from foot to foot, cold.

“Are you cold?”

“No, I'm fine.” Lie.

“You sure because-” Cassian started to remove his jacket.

“I’m FINE.”

He put his hands up in defeat and kept his jacket on.

Once they got their food they found a table next to the pier. She couldn’t deny how beautiful the view was, even if she did have to share it with a stray dog.

Nesta took one bite and her entire expression changed.

“Holy mother of-” she took another huge bite as Cassian bellowed a laugh

“I told you” He chuckled at her with his own mouth full.

“They need a real restaurant.”

“Maybe,” Cassian wiped his mouth. “ but this is less expensive and it clearly isn’t hurting business. And who could beat this view?”

“I suppose.” Nesta took another ginormous bite out of her burger. Cassian smiled to himself watching her eat with such pleasure. How food was meant to be eaten.

“What?” Nesta asked, mouth full.

“Hm? Nothing.” Cassian went back to focusing on his burger.

“Don’t be gross.”

“WHAT? I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING”

“You didn’t have to.” Nesta glared at him.

“I just- never mind.”

“This better?” Nesta sarcastically put her pinkies up as she took another huge bite.

“Perfect form m’ lady.” Cassian bowed his head and mirrored her pinky posture.

Nesta laughed, actually LAUGHED.

“Careful Nesta or I might think you’re having a good time.”

“Impossible.”

“MMHM.” Cassian smiled to himself as he finished his burger.

Clearly being hungry made her lose her senses because she was actually having a wonderful time. She must be ill.

________________________________________________________________

Let me know what you think! <3

#nessian #feysand #elriel #nessian fic #feysand fic #elriel fic #sjm #college AU #eventual smut #sjm fic #archeron sisters

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yoon-kooks · 5 years

Text

Witch Hazel- Pt.6

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: FanficWriter!Jungkook, Idol!Reader, College!AU, Angst, Fluff

Summary: There are two students in your art class with a secret: you and the quiet Jeon Jungkook. You’re a problematic idol singer, infamous for your ice cold reputation and perpetual resting bitch face; he’s the artist and author behind the viral comic series based on a certain ice queen idol. After a blowup of destructive rumors, lost motivation and inevitable solitude, you stumble upon Jungkook’s comic and find a new and unexpected light.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: none

Parts: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // ?

A/N: i’ve had mixed feelings about the tumblr fic community as of late :/ but heres something to read🥺

Holding the boy’s pinky in your own, you stare once more at his drawing of you with your guitar and flower crown—a superhero to those whom you shared your music with.

No. Your music hasn’t saved anyone. You’ve never been a hero to anyone. If anything, you’re the one who needs to be saved. You’d always thought you could grow strong enough to save yourself if you just closed yourself off from the world and did everything on your own. But in the end, that only seemed to hurt you more.

You should’ve known. It’s okay to ask for help, to reach out, to let him in.

“A few years ago, I had a thought. It wasn’t a very smart thought, but I decided I wanted to share part of myself with the world. I thought about the different ways I could go about that, but the way that made the most sense for me was music,” you say, finally letting go of Jungkook’s pinky and making yourself awfully comfortable on a bed that doesn’t belong to you. “So I auditioned for Polar Entertainment. Not to be an idol, but to be a songwriter.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything, but he nods as if it’s not a shock to him, as if he saw it as “a Y/N thing to do.” At the same time, his gentle eyes wait for you to continue, curious to know what’ll happen next.

“Do you remember the song you heard me singing the other day in the music room?”

Jungkook cracks a smirk and starts singing your song word for word in a surprisingly in-tune whisper. Oh, he remembers it alright, and he’ll apparently never let you live it down. He doesn’t stop until you throw one of the balled-up blankets at his face.

“That was the first time I picked up my guitar and sang that song since being rejected at the audition.”

“I can imagine how scarring that would be. Rejection,” he shudders at the word, though you’re sure he knows little about the feeling with art skills as professional as his. “They really didn’t like you though?”

“They liked certain parts of me.” Your vocals, your beauty, your body. “But not the ones that mattered.” Your music, your creativity, your personality. You.

“That’s their loss,” Jungkook says in the midst of a yawn, practically inaudible. But you heard him.

“Maybe they had a point,” you say, looking up at the ceiling. “Because when I look back to that time, it was quite foolish of me to believe my music would reach anyone when it came from a place of desperation, not my heart. The song was a plea for help, not one that would save others.”

“What made you suddenly sing it again after all this time?”

You grab hold of the boy’s hand and form yet another pinky promise. “Promise you won’t laugh at me for my reason.”

“I can’t promise you that,” he says with the straightest face. He’s ready to burst out laughing again and you know it.

“Then I won’t tell you.” With a hmph, you bury yourself under the fluffiest blanket. You wonder how he would’ve reacted if you told him it was that dang jk.seagull and his fanfic that gave you the courage to sing again, to go back to your roots, to follow your love of creating music. It’d obviously sound ridiculous to admit it out loud, but the joy you feel from reading Witch Hazel is what reminds you of the very thing you want to provide others with—happiness.

And that’s perhaps all the encouragement you needed to start sharing your music again.

“I won’t tell you what it was exactly that made me do it, but I’ll tell you why,” you peek your head back out of the blankets to see the boy still waiting patiently for an answer. “I wanted to move on… from the failure I faced that day. That way, I can finally become that superhero you speak of.”

You place the drawing of your superhero self onto the nightstand so that it doesn’t get crinkled up on the bed. No, she’s not a superhero yet. But she will be someday.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“You better not tell anyone,” you remind him. “This isn’t something I share with other people. Ever.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he assures you, with not only his words but also his warmth.

“Good.” You smile whilst closing your eyes. You meant to tell him that he could confide in you too, but the warmth pulls you into a deep slumber before you could do so.

It’s been a minute since you’ve awoken in someone else’s bed, though this is the first time you aren’t all wrapped up in their embrace. Rather, half the boy’s body is hanging off the side of the bed for dear life while you’re right smack in the middle, all bundled up in one of the blankets.

If you wanted to, you could push him over the edge with the tiniest tap of your foot—that’s how close he is to falling. But as tempting as it would be to get even with the boy who teases you to no end, you opt to quietly check your phone without disturbing him.

To your surprise, you have two new notifications: a text from Seokjin earlier this morning and a late-night update from jk.seagull posted sometime after you had passed out. You’ve always been the type to take care of work obligations before indulging in guilty pleasures, so you open Seokjin’s text first.

6:04AM jinnie “so jimin’s manager reached out to me”

6:05AM jinnie “and you want to collab with jimin?”

7:12AM Y/N “oh yeah i asked him to have his manager contact you”

7:13AM Y/N “but i guess i forgot to tell you LOL”

It’s not that you forgot. You were just hesitant to tell your manager about it yourself. Because if possible, you’d like to minimize your own company’s involvement in this top-secret scheme of yours.

7:15AM jinnie “are you up to something?”

7:15AM Y/N “mayhaps”

7:16AM Y/N “but dont tell boss lady pls”

7:17AM jinnie “shes going to find out one way or another”

7:19AM Y/N “thats true 🤔 ”

7:20AM Y/N “well tbh knowing her, she’d probably approve of the collab anyway since it should clear up those dating rumors while (hopefully) appealing to jimin’s fanbase”

7:21AM Y/N “just dont tell her the logistics of the collab”

7:21AM jinnie “what are you scheming lmao”

7:22AM Y/N “youll see”

7:22AM jinnie “ 😒 dont get me or yourself in trouble Y/N”

7:23AM Y/N “i wont! i promise! 🥺 ”

7:24AM jinnie “okay fine”

7:25AM jinnie “ill arrange a meeting with jimin and his manager to discuss everything formally”

As you move on to the more exciting notification on your phone, you see that the sleeping Jungkook has slipped several inches closer to falling flat on his face. Maybe you’ll save him from his impending doom. Maybe you won’t. But that’ll have to wait until after you see what jk.seagull had to say on his blog.

“do you ever think back to that one time in math camp when a little girl screamed in your face that she hated math and wanted to become a musician instead? apparently she somehow confused ‘musician’ with ‘mathematician’ LMAO”

You aren’t sure what provoked the silly seagull guy to share such a random thought, but you do get a good laugh out of it. After all, you can totally relate as someone who went to math camp one summer despite knowing in your heart what you truly wanted to do-

Wait.

“Jungkook,” you say in a half-hushed, half-urgent tone, though calling his name wouldn’t be what actually wakes him from his slumber. “I think I know who the seagull guy is.”

Thud. You swear on your life you didn’t lay a finger on the boy when he fell, despite all the devilish thoughts you had about it earlier. He fell on his own. You’re innocent. Therefore, you have a right to laugh.

“Are you okay?” you snicker, peering down from the bed at the dazed boy. He might have been the biggest klutz for rolling off the bed and stumbling around to find his glasses, but holy shit. His wild bedhead and scattered blankets across the floor make it seem as though the two of you had a lot more than just an innocent heart-to-heart in his bed last night.

“I’m fine,” he stretches his arms and combs the bedhead out. Yes, he is fine. “But, uhh, what’s this about that seagull guy?”

“I think I know him.” You expect Jungkook to be as excited as you are, but he just seems kind of puzzled—perhaps from his lack of sleep.

“…and how did you come to that conclusion…?” he asks. Or maybe he doesn’t believe you.

“You didn’t see the post! Look at the post.” You join the boy down on the floor and make yourself at home there with your phone and some of the fallen blankets. He leans over your shoulder to read the infamous post you won’t shut up about.

“Math camp?” Jungkook continues to squint at the cryptic message before chuckling. “Also, did that girl seriously confuse musician with mathematician?”

“Stop laughing! That dumbass was me.” Now you wish you had kicked his ass off the bed.

He stops laughing, not because you told him to but because he’s mildly shook. “What?”

You take a deep breath in because you know you’re setting yourself up to be clowned for the rest of your fucking life. “When I was like ten, I told my parents that I wanted to be a mathematician, thinking that word meant musician. So they signed me up for camp that summer.”

“Did you ever stop to think that mathematician has the word math in it and not mu-”

You interrupt the boy’s unwelcomed commentary with an air-punch to his guts before continuing on as if nothing happened. “I was so excited until I got there. It was absolutely mortifying to learn that it was a math camp, not a music camp.”

“I like this story,” he nods with his arms guarding himself in anticipation of another air-jab as you square up.

“Still, I tried to make the best out of the situation since I was actually kind of good at math,” you say. “The camp director even told me I’d make a great math professor one day.”

“I can’t imagine you as a math professor.” He settles down with all the chuckling.

“I couldn’t either, so I ran off to an empty room where I thought I could escape without anyone finding me,” you soften your tone. “But somehow a crying, wandering boy found me.”

“Was it the seagull?”

“Maybe. All I remember was hearing music playing from somewhere outside. I sang along as a way to comfort and distract myself from the whole math situation, but it seemed to cheer up the boy as well.”

“Your voice does have that effect, you know.”

“He told me the same thing.” You can’t help but smile a little at the compliment. “But in that moment, it felt like my dream had a purpose beyond fueling my own desires. And I needed to share it with someone. Anyone.”

“So you shared it with the boy?”

You nod. “I told him my dream was to be a mathematician, but he knew what I meant.”

“Did he at least clown you first?”

“He did. He laughed right in my face, and at first I thought he was a jerk for making fun of my dream. But after he kindly taught me the difference between musician and mathematician, I announced my actual dream to him and him alone.”

“And how’d he respond?”

“He said it was cool beans.”

“He said cool beans?”

“Those were his exact words, yes.”

“And that was it?”

“That’s all I can remember.”

“So you don’t even remember his name or anything?”

“We never introduced ourselves,” you shake your head. “I don’t remember his face either because it was covered by a hood and long hair.”

“That’s too bad,” Jungkook sighs. “I bet it really was that seagull guy after all.”

“I have a feeling it was him, too.”

It would be nice and awfully romantic if you had somehow crossed paths long ago with the very seagull who continues to inspire your craft with his own. But even if that isn’t the case, you’re content with having that memory and entrusting it with another boy who has done nothing but lift you up.

You lean yourself gently against the Jungkook’s shoulder as you slip your phone back into your pocket, debating on your next course of action. The two of you should be getting ready for class, but that doesn’t sound very appealing. There are other things you’d much rather be doing, like maybe thanking the boy for lending his ear. But for some reason, it’s still difficult for you to say those two simple words of gratitude.

Perhaps it’s difficult because there’s a lot more you’d say than just “thanks man.”

“Can we just cut class and get coffee instead?” Yes, you’ll thank him for his service by treating him to coffee. Unless…? What if this is just your subtle way of asking the boy out on a date? What if he says no because you’ve already spent way too much time with him in the past 24 hours? What if he hates coffee? What if he-

“We should probably go to class to turn in our project, yeah?” Jungkook brings up a good point. But the thing is, you don’t really have your priorities straight at the moment and your mind has only two things consuming it: coffee and boy. “But we can get coffee after class.”

“Ooh, good, because there’s this one coffee shop I want you to try!” You chirp up despite your nonexistent dose of morning caffeine. “It’ll be my treat as thanks for… letting me hog your bed.”

“Oh right... that,” Jungkook hops to his feet and starts tidying up said bed. You help by picking up and folding all of the blankets. “I nearly froze and fell to my death because of that, you know.”

“I saw,” you bite your lip, trying to mask any naughty thoughts that come to mind. Because next time, if there is in fact a next time, you won’t let the boy freeze.

By the time art class ends, the weight of the dreaded group project has been lifted and your craving for coffee begins to settle in once more. And apparently, the hunger and excitement is radiating off you because someone has the audacity to make a comment about it.

“Why does your face look like that?” Taehyung teases, but you’re mildly offended.

“Because I’m getting coffee from my favorite café. That’s why,” you hiss but there’s still a hidden glow about you and your excitement. “Coffee is to me as girls are to you, Taehyung.”

“Ooh, speaking of girls, do any cute girls work there?” He strokes his wise man beard. “Maybe I’ll tag along.”

“I don’t fucking know.” And even if you did know, you wouldn’t say yes.

“How boring,” he yawns while nudging the boy next to him. “Hey Jungkook, wanna go on a double date with me? I met a pair of gamer girls, but I don’t know all the nerdy gaming stuff that you know. And think about it, this could be the first time you get laid since-”

“Actually, Jungkook’s getting coffee with me,” you interrupt. And if you had been brave enough to look up at the boy as you spoke, you would have seen the healthy pink radiance on his cheeks.

“Oh, so the two of you are dating all of a sudden?” Taehyung nods, as if he had hit the mark.

Neither you or Jungkook give an immediate answer, probably due to the unspoken yet very apparent shift in dynamics between the two of you as of late. Yes, you’ve developed certain feelings for the boy, but no, you aren’t technically “dating.” You just hope he’s on the same page as you.

“It’s just coffee,” you want to say, but it comes out of Jungkook’s mouth instead. And even though you would’ve said the same exact thing, it hits a little different hearing it from him.

At the same time, coffee is coffee and Jungkook is Jungkook. You need to remind yourself that your craving for coffee with the boy will be satisfied, regardless of whether it’s a date or not. After all, “dating” is not an option for an idol who should only be focusing on her music and fans.

“Which drink would you recommend?” Jungkook asks as you lead him in the direction of the café.

“If you like coffee, all of the drinks are good in my humble opinion,” you say, though you realize you should probably give the boy a few specific suggestions to make his decision a little easier. “You can get a standard mocha or latte if you want something simple. Or, their signature hazelnut coffee is really really good. Or if you want something iced, you should try the cold brew because it’s literally the most refreshing dose of caffeine ever. Oh! But if you’re into something more plant-based, I suggest the maple oat-”

“You’re not narrowing down my options if you recommend the entire menu, Y/N,” the boy chuckles at your coffee enthusiast behavior.

“Well, here’s my thought process: if we go at least once a week after class, you can eventually try every drink on the menu by the end of the school year. Not including all the different types of milk options though.”

“I don’t know if I should be impressed or terrified that you even bothered to do that calculation.” His eyes are bigger and brighter than the sun. “But that must mean you really like coffee then, huh?”

“Of course! Is that even a question?” The snobby coffee enthusiast jumped out real quick. But even beyond the coffee, you did the calculation to see how long your little coffee not-dates with the boy could last before you have to return to your idol obligations. “You like coffee too, right?”

“Not really,” he sighs. Your jaw drops. Who the does he think he is? “Are there any tea options? Or like a banana milk or something?”

“You can’t just walk into a coffee shop and not order coffee.” Is this guy for real? No, he’s just fucking with you. Probably. “I better start reevaluating who I hang out with,” you say with a sarcastic hmph.

“I’m kidding, kind of.” He doesn’t do a very good job of reassuring you of that. “I like… coffee.”

“That hesitant pause doesn’t sit well with me, Jeon.” You raise an eyebrow at the suspicious boy. It feels nice to tease him for once. “Why are you grabbing coffee with me if you don’t love it?”

“I just curious about this coffee place,” he nudges you, “since someone seems to really enjoy it.”

So it’s because of you…

“Good to know I’ve successfully peer pressured you into consuming caffeine,” you hum, playing it off as if his words weren’t absorbed right into your heart. It was never about coffee.

It’s about you and him.

The thought of that makes your heart scream a little, so you hide your flustered face behind your phone as the two of you approach the coffee shop. You have an unread text from your manager.

2:35PM jinnie “good news”

2:36PM jinnie “i set up a meeting with jimin and his manager in an hour”

You stop in your tracks. That’s not good news. Well actually, it is good for your top secret collab. But the timing of it all is anything but good.

“Are you searching up the menu online? Oh wait, you already have the entire menu memorized from A to Z.” He thinks he’s funny. Now is not the time, Jeon. His teasing smile doesn’t disappear until the distress is written all over your face.

How do you cancel a not-a-date date without a proper explanation? How can you do that to a boy who has only ever done you right? The thing is, you don’t have to hurt him.

You can cancel the meeting, you can bail out on the collab, you can disappear from the idol world altogether if you choose to do so. And if you didn’t want to go that far, you could instead tell the boy of your deepest and darkest secret, of your idol identity, and he would surely understand your reasons for having to leave so suddenly for work.

You could do any of those things, but you decide not to. You won’t allow yourself to make such a rash decision, even if it’s the right one. So you decide to keep the meeting, you decide to keep your idol self hidden in the shadows, and you decide to abandon the boy.

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook fanfic #btsboulangerie #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook #bts #bangtan #witch hazel

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snifflyjoonie · 4 years

Text

I Think You’re My Soulmate

a/n: Alrighty well enough people seemed interested in this so I figured I’d give posting it a shot! I’m going to post it slowly in parts in between fics just because it is still something I am actively working on.

Here’s Part 1, which is basically me trying to set this universe up lmfao.

The premise is essentially you and your soulmate snz at the exact same moment every time, without fail... But what happens if there’s more than one?

Hopefully you guys like it!

***

For as long as Namjoon could remember, he had dreamed of finding his soulmate.

“Dad, how did you and Mom meet?”

Namjoon’s father glanced at his son from behind the pages of his book. No more than six years old, but always asking questions, always on the hunt for knowledge and understanding. He had been this way ever since he had learned to talk. He couldn’t help but admire his son’s beautiful curiosity.

His father leaned forward, reaching out to pat one of his son’s chubby cheeks, “The same way everyone does, Namjoon.” He smiled warmly, “We both shared a sneeze.”

He watched as his son seemed to ponder the answer, the little gears in his tiny brain turning, “What does that mean, Dad?”

His father ruffled his hair and chuckled, “You’ll learn more as you grow, but I will tell you this; when the universe gives you a sign, you listen. When you share a sneeze with someone, it is the world telling you that you have found your soulmate. It’s just the way it works, my son.”

Something changed in young Namjoon that day, and from that moment on, he had been determined to find his forever person.

Just like his father had told him, as he grew older, he began to learn more about his father’s quizzical answer. At the age of ten, they began to teach in school the strange way that human beings found their true soulmate. It seemed that whenever you sneezed, wherever in the world you might be, whatever it was you may have been doing, your soulmate would sneeze with you in perfect harmony. This is how it was, and this is how it had always been. It was taught to be a gift from the universe; a goofy sort of blessing to help you find your missing piece. Namjoon could remember the class giggling at the thought, the prospect of such a thing seemed silly, ridiculous even, and yet, seemed to click at the same time. He remembered the childish fake sneezes that had started to fill the room, the teacher laughing and telling them that wasn’t quite how it worked. He remembered being in awe, a childhood wonder that had long since left him, but that had been formed in that very classroom. Many of his male classmates had found this human oddity to be hilarious, whereas the girls tended to find it embarrassing. He however, had found it sort of romantic. The thought of having a special connection with someone, no matter how silly it was, a brief second of time that you both shared together, no matter the day, no matter either of your whereabouts, no matter if you knew each other or had yet to meet…it was always intriguing to him.

From then on, Namjoon had spent his middle and teenage years doing whatever he could to make himself sneeze in the hopes that someone else would join along with him. He would always share drinks with friends under the weather, avoid wearing a jacket in the wintertime, stand out in the pouring rain… To his mother, it seemed that every other week he would catch cold, or come home with a runny nose. She had always lectured him to watch his health, to not worry about finding his soulmate right away, that it would happen when it would happen…but when he started refusing to wear a face mask in the hopes something would itch his nose just enough, she simply gave up.

Towards the end of Namjoon’s teenage years, he spent his time watching his friends fall in love. It seemed that nearly once a month someone would catch cold and find out the girl from English they had eyes for happened to be their soulmate, or a seasonal allergy sufferer would discover the cute girl two years younger was meant for him during an accidental encounter with a bouquet, and so on and so forth. As he began to approach the end of high school, a deep worry started to settle in his chest. Why had nearly everyone else he knew found their soulmate? Why hadn’t he? He wanted it more than anyone, tried harder more than anybody, and yet…no one. He had heard the whispered rumors of people going their whole lives never finding who they were truly meant to spend their days with. The idea of never finding that one person, of settling down with somebody else while you and your soulmate continued to share an unspoken connection…the thought nearly drove him insane, and he began to fear that maybe his soulmate wasn’t in Korea at all.

It was then that Namjoon had decided he wanted to learn English. He begged his parents to find him a tutor, to sign him up for special classes, anything to help him master the confusing language as quickly as he could. Intrigued by his determination, his parents bought him the entirety of the popular American show Friends for him to watch and use to brush up on his English skills.

By the time graduation rolled around a few years later, Namjoon’s English skills had improved drastically, so much so that he could comfortably hold a conversation without getting too jumbled up in the words. It was at this point that he broke the news to his parents – he wanted to go to University in America. They were surprised, but supportive. When asked why he would possibly want to leave his friends and family behind to study abroad so far away he merely told them it was all to improve his English skills. His parents felt they could understand that, and agreed to help send their only son away to school.

Namjoon had spent a year preparing for his big move abroad before finally arriving in the United States. He was an undeclared major, not sure what he wanted to do with his life just yet but excited to learn either way. He was twenty now, a young man, and though he would never tell his parents, what he was most excited about was to find his soulmate.

He spent three years in the United States studying and searching; and as each year passed by Namjoon could feel himself becoming more discouraged not only in his hunt for love but in his studies as well. He had tried dating a few different girls, but the relationships would never last very long after one of them sneezed and the other didn’t. As each year passed by, he felt himself starting to lose his childlike awe of the world, his fascination with finding love…He became less talkative, less approachable, and by the time he entered his third year, he had all but given up on love and school alike. As his grades began to drop, his parents began to worry and requested him to return home after the end of his third year. Namjoon respectively obeyed. He had traveled across the world to find his soulmate, and would now be returning to Korea crushed, alone, and having lost hope in ever finding his one true person.

Returning to Korea had been embarrassing for him, but his parents were overjoyed to have him home. They did all they could to make him smile, to encourage him, to try to bring back the Namjoon they remembered and so desperately loved. They even tried to convince him to enroll at a University in Seoul, and after a year of uplifting words and badgering, Namjoon reluctantly agreed. He applied to the school late, getting accepted to start just after the winter break. His parents were overjoyed, Namjoon however simply felt neutral. He would be pursuing a degree in math in an attempt to become a math teacher, something his parents had been wanting for years. Namjoon was more than smart enough, knew he would succeed, but it had never been something he had particularly wanted to do. However, now he simply just didn’t care, and only wanted to make his parents proud. He owed it to them, after all they did to get him to America and back again.

The months leading up to him starting school were unremarkable, and before he knew it, he was starting University in Seoul the following day. Namjoon went to bed early that night, not looking forward to whatever tomorrow had to offer. He had just turned twenty-five a few months prior, now a grown man, he felt he had lost a part of himself. He wasn’t the same Namjoon anymore; wasn’t that chubby-cheeked little boy, ignorant to the real world. That part of him had died a long time ago. His outer shell had hardened as the years went by, his dreams faded to gray, somedays he didn’t even recognize himself. ‘Is this just growing up?’ he often thought. One day he hoped to find himself again, but today was not that day, and with a slight scratch beginning to form in the back of his throat, he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Namjoon jolted himself awake with a sneeze long before his alarm was set to ring. He groaned, blinking groggily as he tried to catch his bearings. His head felt like it had been plugged with cotton, his throat cracked and parched. He gave a dry cough, clearing his throat with a wince. Of course he would get sick, why wouldn’t he? Years of purposely doing anything he could to get himself sick had left him prone to colds and sinus infections, especially when he was stressed. No matter how often he fell under the weather he could still never get used to the cumbersome side effects that each illness brought, or the annoying thoughts he tended to think whenever he felt the urge to sneeze.

Namjoon shivered slightly, pulling his comforter up to his chin with a sniffle, the congestion in his nose blocking any air from getting through. He groaned again, and pitched forward slightly with another sneeze. He blinked hard and rubbed at his watery eyes, rolling over lazily to glance at his alarm clock. 5:30am. He couldn’t stop his heart from fluttering at the thought that maybe he wasn’t the only one woken up by his itchy nose. He shook his head slightly at the idea, he never liked thinking about these types of things anymore, but he was sick, it was early, and he was feeling lonely. He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. He stared at the time on his clock again and sighed. It was 2:30pm in Canada. Maybe his soulmate was sitting in a coffee shop, reading a mystery novel they had read a dozen times already but always came back to because it was their absolute favourite. It was 8:30pm in the UK. Maybe his soulmate had been brushing their teeth for bed, their shared sneeze catching them off guard and causing toothpaste to dribble down their chin. It was 7:30am in Australia. Perhaps his soulmate was getting ready for work, fresh out of the shower, their towel-dried body glistening under the bathroom light. It was 1:30am in India. Maybe his soulmate was just as annoyed as he was to have been woken up so early, but grateful they still had many hours to fall back asleep.

Whoever they were and wherever they might be, Namjoon wished that one day they would meet, someway, somehow, and that they could help him believe in love once more. And with one final flutter of his heart, the man drifted back off into a short and fitful sleep.

#alright I said i was going to use another tag for this passion project to keep it all together so let's go with #the soulmate au #i really hope you guys enjoy this one #i've poured a lot of time into it but i still don't think it's the best??????? so i get nervous????? lol #anyway it's namjoon-centered as he tries to figure himself out and navigate through this weird concept lol basically good luck my dude #mine #bts sickfic #bts au

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